


Five Times Booker Broke His Exile and the One Time He Did Not

by sphinx81



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Accidental Murder But They're Fine Of Course, Anger, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Because Nile Deserves To Be Loved, Book of Nile, Booker is an idiot, Depression, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Grieving, Happy, Heavy Angst, Historical References, Human Trafficking, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Loneliness, Mental Anguish, Mental Health Issues, Nightmares, Pining, Seriously Booker Get Your Shit Together, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:35:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 52,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25558183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sphinx81/pseuds/sphinx81
Summary: Booker accepts the consequences for betraying his family and takes his punishment without question. But when you can't die in the normal sorts of ways, it's inevitable that you'll cross paths with your fellow immortals. Except he seems to find himself always in the presence of just one of them. Whether it's fate or folly that draws him to her like a moth to a flame, he doesn't want to know. But he won't deny himself whenever they come together over the years of his exile.
Relationships: Booker | Sebastien le Livre & Nile Freeman, Booker | Sebastien le Livre/Nile Freeman
Comments: 234
Kudos: 701
Collections: Book of Nile Collection!





	1. Florence, Italy

Booker is the youngest of the Immortals by far. So when the new woman pops up so vividly in his dreams, it’s the first time he’s ever felt a fresh one's reaction to dying and being reborn. He's accustomed to his own agony of constantly returning from the dead. Yet the horror of being disoriented in someone else’s body?

Excruciating.

Choking on her blood, his dreams frantically snap to a brother and mother he'll never know but who she desperately wants to see one last time. A father's love that tastes bitter on her bloodied tongue. For she's sacrificed her life in the same way he did all those years ago. Another dead, black body in a rich man's war.

If this is what heroism feels like, she doesn't want it anymore. Not when she's so terrified of the darkness rapidly filling her vision. Her fingers slick with her own blood clutch at the gold cross hanging around her slashed neck. But there's no salvation to be found. Not with the feel of the blood gushing out of her skin with every slowing pulse of her heart.

Her visceral terror wakes Booker with a start. Tears fall from his reddened eyes and he gasps for the breath that doesn't come as her heartbeat stops in his ears. His hand instinctively clutches at his neck.

_I felt her die._

He’s intimately familiar with having the world torn asunder at a death and resurrection that’s beyond all logic. After all, he was that kid once and not so long ago. The urge to protect her wells up strong from his gut. Especially in light of his coming betrayal.

 _It's been over two hundred years_ , he distantly hears Andy painfully gasp from the other side of the rocking train car. _Why now?!_

None of them ever have the answers.

When Booker meets Nile in person for the first time, she immediately reminds him of his wife. No matter that they look so utterly different from one another. Like his dear and long-gone Eugénie, Nile’s entire being seems to envelope him at first sight.

Her sheer levels of determination reinforce a prickly exterior. But hiding beneath it lies a heart that feels as deep as the oceans are wide. It leaves him breathless and reeling. All despite that he's currently in the process of burning his entire fucking life down. As though the universe is playing some sick joke on him with the timing of her showing up. 

She looks over at him with those big, brown eyes full of confusion and awe as Joe and Nicky so easily tell the story of how they met during the Crusades. Her expression immediately digs into Booker’s psyche when he tells her died fighting with Napoleon. But there’s also the stark fact that Nile is a baby compared to his centuries of existence. He has no intention of violating her trust in the name of his pathetic loneliness and lust. Not to mention, there’d be hell to pay from Andy, Joe and Nicky.

Modern folks call his feelings towards her an uneven power dynamic. He prefers to label it as not being a fucking creep.

Better to suffer in silence than earn her hate. Especially after she fights so hard for him to be forgiven by the rest of his family. For him to deceive her a second time would make him a monster.

He takes his 100-year exile as best he can and hops on a plane in the opposite direction of where the rest of them are headed. Better to put as much distance between them all as possible. Besides, he hasn’t seen Paris since his last son died while cursing his name. At least there, he'll be able to wallow among the familiar sights and sounds.

* * *

**Florence, Italy**

In a fucked-up sort of way, he’s relieved to be at the Uffizi Galleries without Joe and Nicky around constantly reminiscing about the Renaissance. Then again, who could blame them? No longer having to exist in the age of darkness into which they were born, the era was like a refreshing dunk into an icy river of enlightenment.

“You following me, Booker?”

Nile has gotten infinitely better at sneaking up on him. It’s a vast improvement in the decade or so since he’s seen her. Completely distracted, he doesn’t even register her presence until the laughing words fall from her mouth. He spins around from where he stands, staring up at the painting by Paolo Domenico Finoglia of Joe and Nicky posing as Clorinda and Tancredi.

“More like you’re following me,” he exhales at the sight of her.

“Swear I’m not,” she holds up both her hands in surrender, “But it’s still good…better than good, to see you.”

“Same,” he awkwardly says despite the smile that flies to his face.

They stand there for a while, Booker rocking back and forth on his heels while Nile stares at him in expectation.

She hugs him first. Her arms winding around him in a warm embrace, he feels her relax against him. He drops his chin to her shoulder and closes his eyes to revel in the contact.

As she steps away to look him up and down, her mouth curls with a grin. “I’d say you look fine. But like the rest of us, you look the same,” she playfully punches him in the shoulder.

Of course, she physically looks the same too. Her style has changed a bit. Though that’s to be expected with the usual passage of time.

Hair wound up in an artfully messy bun, the dark, curly dreadlocks are decorated with an array of gold beads. Draped over her elbow is a black leather motorcycle jacket. Her fluttery, short sleeved peasant top is brightly colored with patterns of bursting flowers. Nearly sheer, it reveals a lacy bralette beneath. It’s just as on-trend as her black, distressed skinny jeans. On her feet are black high-top sneakers with white soles. Their silver spiked studs around the ankles match the ones embedded in the shoulders of the jacket.

She still wears the gold cross on the delicate chain about her neck.

The look suits her. It screams, “Don’t fuck with me” while revealing the softness beneath.

Booker swallows at the sight of the breathtaking woman in front of him. Glancing away, he stuffs his hands in his pockets as he rumbles, “Where’s everyone else? Should I leave before they pop up to kick my ass?”

“No worries,” she assures him, “It’s just me-”

Crystal blue eyes brimming with concern, he cuts her off. “You’re still good with them, _oui?”_ After all, he knows what it’s like to walk the world alone. Not that he doesn’t deserve it now.

“It’s fine, Booker,” she smiles, "Just taking a quick vacay.”

“That’s good to hear,” he breathes a sigh of relief.

“Nicky's showing Joe some of his old hangouts over in Venice. Along with probably bemoaning how the Baroque era ruined the city and cursing Napoleon’s name for taking it. No offense,” she quickly adds.

He waves her off. “The man _did_ get me killed the first time,” he arches a brow, “So there’s that.”

Nile grins. “Andy and Quynh are back in Rome. Their first time alone together...I’m really hoping they're not planning a redo of when they helped sack the place back in the day," she contemplates out loud.

“Which time are they talking about? ‘Cause it happened more than once.”

Nile gets that look of excitement that shifts to contemplation whenever any of them bring up events that happened so long ago before her lifetime. “They didn’t go into detail,” she shakes her head in disbelief.

Something suddenly occurs to him. "They left you to wander alone?" It comes out far more forceful than he intends.

She doesn't seem to notice, bumping her shoulder against his. "I can take care of myself just fine, thanks."

"You shouldn't have to," he grumbles, "That's what family is for."

“And sometimes families need to chill out away from each other. We’re meeting back up in Berlin at the end of the summer,” she shrugs. “Besides, this is one of my favorite museums."

She gestures for him to follow her to the next gallery. He gladly trails in her wake.

They take in the Caravaggio painting. Nile easily launches into an explanation of the symbolism of _The Calling of St Matthew_. Her hands gesture wildly around it and its flawless execution of _chiaroscuro_. The beam of rich, golden light cuts from Jesus and Peter on the right to left across the composition. A sign of God’s inspiration to where Matthew sits collecting Roman taxes in a darkened corner. The classical triangle composition aligns with the usual focal points.

Watching Nile's passionate analysis, Booker recalls her awe at the original Rodin in the abandoned Serbian mine. The woman clearly has an appreciation for art. This place must be like heaven for her.

“Booker?” she repeats a third time.

Her voice lulls him out of his thoughts. “Yeah?” he distantly replies.

“Sorry,” she sheepishly grins, “I get a little carried away sometimes. Must be hella boring for you.”

“Not in the slightest, _ma chérie_ ," he firmly replies while reaching down to grab her hand. He meant to give her a squeeze of reassurance and drop it. Yet he can’t seem to let her go.

Instead of recoiling as he expects her to, she leans into him and declares, “Didn’t realize you were into art too.”

He lets out a small huff of relief. “It’s one of the few things that remains unchanged over time.”

“The art itself, yes,” she nods. “Their interpretations? Not so much...c’mon,” she slides her hand out of his, “Show me your fav piece,” she beckons towards another gallery.

He tells her he doesn’t really have one. Mostly, he prefers any period besides the one in which he first died. Though he does take particular pride in the Impressionists. How they collectively threw their middle fingers up at the conventions of the time and defined _La Belle Époque._ Even he had some pretty good memories of it before the Great War broke out and shot everything to shit.

They spend the rest of the day wandering the museum. It’s an extensive collection that allows them to take in everything at a leisurely pace. He never gets tired of her commentary. Just hearing her voice so near makes every moment that much more precious.

He finds out from her how her mom would take her and her brother to all of the museums when they were growing up. It was a cheap way to kill the time while also being educational. No wonder she fell in love with it all. Despite signing up for the Marines right out of high school, she’d always hit up any and all art exhibitions wherever she was stationed. Well, if they were any to be had. 

“Even in all the chaos of fighting, it’s good to know there’s still something beautiful being made in the world, you know?”

He ruminates on her words, how they’re imbued with so much reverence. He wishes he still contained that type of optimism. He also mourns her inevitable coming loss of it. 

They stay until closing time. It’s only around 7pm and the sun has barely begun to set since it’s early summer. However, she checks the time on her cellphone.

“I’ve got a train to catch back to Siena-”

“I’ll walk you to the station,” he quickly promises.

“Can’t argue with that,” she shoots him an amused look.

They stroll through the streets and take in the sights. Florence has always been a city that delights in its evening life. Crowds of people amble by, locals and tourists alike. There are stands selling various wares and food. Some street artists chalk up the cobblestones with their creations, pointing at their tip jars for people to fill as they look on at the painted images slowly coming to life.

They reach the train platform with time to spare. Leaning back against a tiled wall and instinctively out of sight of the surveillance cameras, they wait in companionable silence.

“Don’t know if we’ll see each other again before I’ve finished my sentence,” Booker finally mutters.

Nile claps him on the shoulder and gives him a contemplative look. “Wherever the wind blows us right?”

“Yeah,” he stares at her, “Something like that, kiddo.”

Before he can stop himself, he leans in and drops a kiss to each of her cheeks in that typical French way of goodbye. _“À la prochaine,”_ he whispers. At her pleasantly confused expression, he carefully tucks a beaded dreadlock behind her ear and shrugs.

“Until next time,” he translates.

“Until next time,” she carefully repeats. Looking up at him, she clasps his hand for a few seconds. “See you when I see you, Booker.”

He doesn’t look back as she boards her train. No need to make their separation even more tortuous. Ducking into the nearest bar, he drowns his sorrows until he manages to stumble his way back into his disheveled apartment.

Just 90 or so more years to go. 

_Fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Notes and Translations:**
> 
> The painting shown during the closing credits of _The Old Guard_ of Joe and Nicky is actually called _"Clorinda Attacks Tancredi"_ by Paolo Domenico Finoglia, painted from 1640–1645, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clorinda_(Jerusalem_Delivered)#/media/File:Finoglio_jerusalem_1.JPG
> 
>  _"Oui"_ \- "Yes" in French. 
> 
> _"...and cursing Napoleon’s name for taking it."_ \- Venice was called _La Serenissima_ due to it being the Most Serene Republic of Venice. The Republic lasted from 697 CE - 1797 CE and over a thousand years, though it began declining in the 15th century. Napoleon captured it in 1797 due to the steady decline of its famous fleet over the centuries. He then entered into the secret Treaty of Campo Formio with the Hapsburg Empire, who are the equivalent of Austria in today's terms. 
> 
> After Napoleon turned Venice over to the Austrians in 1798, he actually took it back in 1805 to form the Kingdom of Italy. After his final defeat at Waterloo in 1815, it was then given back to the Austrians under their newly formed Kingdom of Lombardy-Venetia. In 1866 and after the Third Italian War of Independence, Venice became part of the newly created, independent and unified Kingdom of Italy. The Kingdom pretty much has the same boundaries as modern-day Italy.
> 
>  _“À la prochaine”_ \- “Until next time” or “See you next time” in French. It’s specifically used when you’re not sure of when you’ll see the other person again.
> 
> KiKi Layne serving up another amazing natural hair look is the inspiration for her look in this chapter, https://i.pinimg.com/236x/24/66/d0/2466d070d91a0aa706bcd82259ee9c1e.jpg


	2. Keelung City, Taiwan

**Keelung City, Taiwan**

He still dreams about the rest of them. Well, apart from Andy directly, who is mortal now. That cut hurts the deepest, considering he'll never see her again.

All too often, he finds himself waking in the night, panicked and weeping whenever he sees her through the others' eyes. Grabbing the bottle of liquor that always seems to be sitting on the dingy table next to the shitty cot he sleeps on, he downs whatever remains of it. He's even drunk himself to death a couple of times. Dying of acute alcohol poisoning is admittedly pretty low on the list of the better ways to go. Especially if you end up asphyxiating on your own vomit.

He needs a new job for distraction.

Whether by providence or fate, he soon finds it on the news ticker as he's flipping through the TV channels in his tiny flat. Nowadays, mainland China is capitalist in all but name. There’s even more than one political party and elections are regularly carried out without the need for UN observers. Unfortunately, that’s not the case in Taiwan. At least not this current election cycle.

It’s day eight of the rioting, capping off an entire summer of protesting. Not even an unusually wet typhoon season dampens the fervor. Problem is, the election is less than a month out. Having lost the mainland to increasing democracy, rogue communist agents won’t accept the fact that the world has surprisingly evolved. They're using the unrest as an excuse to round up and disappear folks who are fighting to keep elections free and open.

The protestors have struggled to stay one step ahead of the various surveillance apparatus systems in place. In turn, they've sent out numerous calls for tech support in their battle against tyranny.

He's all too willing to answer it.

Born into an age where science was finally starting to become more accepted as another form of truth, Booker's always had a fascination with the newfangled and arcane. Hence, how he's taken to tech so quickly and unlike the others.

His Mandarin is rusty on account that he hasn't been back since Mao took over on the mainland. No matter, there are plenty of western expats who live on the island. Add in all the international news crews covering the unrest? He'll be able to move about relatively unnoticed.

Which is how he finds himself infiltrating a data farm of servers located in the southern foothills of Jilong Mountain in Taiwan. Only a half-hour south of Keelung City, it’s all electronically monitored. No need to pay for human oversight since it costs too much. At the same time, any human intrusion will immediately be picked up since none are ever supposed to be on-site. The facility also just underwent a recent maintenance upgrade, so it’s not like he can fake one to gain access during the day.

Getting in means interrupting literal monitoring from space. He has to wait for the satellite controlling access to the farm to circumnavigate the globe. Even then, it only allows him a seven-minute window between the time he gains entry from the roof to reach the master terminal nearly a mile underground. Breaking into that central console is the only way to complete his job since there's no outside wifi entry.

He can do a seven-minute mile. It’ll leave him gasping and nearly at a heart attack state, but it’s possible. 

He does it with 19 seconds to spare.

The problem arrives when he’s halfway through the hack. The feel of a gun pressed against the back of his skull hits him steady and assured. Fuck, he really should’ve been paying more attention to the security cam feeds. This is why it’s always better to roll with a team.

He doesn’t have much choice on that matter now.

“C’mon,” Booker makes his voice sound purposely jovial while slowly raising his hands in surrender, “If you wanted to shoot me, you would have done it across the room.”

Their sudden hesitation is his gain. It allows him to viciously kick back his chair so it catches them across their midsection. At the same time, he ducks out of the way of the bullet that he knows they’ll fire off in panic at how fast he's moving. A couple more punches to their gut and he snaps the gun out their hand. It clatters to the floor, useless. Except they send a flurry of punches and kicks back to him.

The first one misses, but a second breaks his jaw. The next few ones miss too until another splits his lip and then cracks his clavicle. He nearly catches a boot to the groin but manages to fluidly sidestep it. Whoever they are, they’re dressed in tactical black with a balaclava face covering. Most likely to avoid getting picked up by digital surveillance.

Snapping his KA-BAR combat knife from the holster hidden under his jacket, he slashes downward. It hits true, plunging into the meat between their shoulder and neck. Yanking it out, he gets in a second fatal hit. This one to their side, in between the bottom two ribs. He almost admires how they don’t scream particularly loud.

Thing is, he also doesn't realize that he's made the rather embarrassing mistake of bringing a knife to a gun fight. For they still manage to produce a second one from somewhere on their person. It allows them to pop off some well-placed shots to his chest. Center of mass aiming is always the way to go.

 _"_ Well, _shit,"_ the apparent woman slowly gurgles out.

He’d recognize that voice anywhere.

How she shakily pulls the balaclava from over her head while haphazardly sliding to the floor confirms it. She leaves a wide, bloody streak on the wall behind her that he can’t bear to look at. Along with how the recognition bubbles up in her fluttering eyes as she bleeds out.

"Booker?"

He'd respond, but one of her bullets nicked his heart while another's collapsed his lung. A third is lodged in his intestine. The fourth shattered an upper rib only to be stopped by his scapula. He can't speak on account of the blood filling his remaining lung. No air to get through to let out his own curse of disbelief. She's also too far away from where he’s laid out to see him roll his eyes.

His dying thoughts suddenly recall a nonsensical poem he’d heard ages ago. Funny how it makes sense here in this dark room eerily lit by the crimson emergency lights overhead.

_One bright day, in the middle of the night,_

_Two dead men got up to fight._

_Back to back, they faced each other,_

_Drew their swords and shot each other._

_If you don’t believe this tale is true,_

_Ask the blind man; he saw it, too._

"D-didn't realize…it…was you," Nile manages to get out in between increasingly shallow breaths. Booker’s reduced to only arching a brow as she coughs up blood and slurs, "'M'sorry."

He can barely make out her words since his brain is in the process of shutting down. He knows from experience it goes faster if he doesn't fight it.

She falls forward as her heart slows. "See you…in a..few…m-minutes, I…guess," are her last words before she dies.

* * *

They’re resuscitated at nearly the same time. Nile’s hand instinctively snaps to her gun next to her. All while she lets out a string of painful curses as her body expels Booker’s knife from her side. She shoves the offending weapon away from her and across the bloody floor to him.

“The ever-living fuck, _Booker!"_ she shoots him a jaundiced look, “Did you _really_ have to kill me?!” She’s still sitting on the floor and halfway bent over. Her chest rises and falls with the effort it takes her body to complete mend itself back together. “Stabbings always suck ass.”

“I ask the same of you,” Booker pointedly gestures to the bloody bullet holes littering his grey t-shirt where it’s stretched across his otherwise healed torso. He staggers to his feet and palms his knife from up off the floor

“You threw a chair at me-!”

“ _Kicked_ it at you, technically,” he holds up a finger of retort, “You know, after you threatened to blow my brains out.”

She shakes her head to the contrary. “Like you said, if I wanted you dead, I would’ve shot you from the door as soon as I walked in.”

“Oh, so that’s why you broke my jaw in two places? he rubs his fingers up and down his chin while wincing, "Along with a few other bones?”

There’s a sparkle in her dark eyes as she cheekily replies, “Can’t help it if I punch like a girl.”

His bark of laughter echoes around them and he reaches down to help pull her to her feet. "You good?"

"Please," she grins as she dusts herself off, "You barely got the drop on me."

His snort of disagreement is loud and obvious. "You keep telling yourself that, _mon oisillon."_

"Oh, I think I will."

Ah, to be young and still full of optimism. He misses it so very much.

“And to think I have ever underestimated you,” he winks before yanking her into a hug. “It is a joy to see you again, Nile,” he murmurs into her temple.

She sighs into his shoulder while running a comforting hand up and down his back. “Been too long, Booker. Missed you too.”

“Same, _ma bonne amie_.”

Nile rocks back on her heels to take in how he looks the same. It’s to be expected. Well, his dark blonde hair is longer now. The undercut from before is gone as the loose strands hit his ears and shirt collar. His cheeks have a light beard all grown in that accentuates his strong jawline. He’s dressed in dark wash jeans, brown, lace-up hiking boots and a tan anorak jacket over the t-shirt. There's a black and white checkered _keffiyeh_ style scarf artfully tied around his neck. A worn, leather messenger bag is also slung sideways across his body.

Tortoise shell, square-framed glasses complete his ensemble. They make him look like a college professor. Now with the longer hair? He’d probably teach medieval Middle Eastern poetry. Or 19th century gothic literature. One of those romantic sorts of subjects that always seem to lend themselves to inappropriate student/teacher conduct due to people catching feelings on account of "the vibes."

She suddenly realizes she wouldn’t mind taking some personal lessons from Professor le Livre during his one-on-one office hours. Not in the slightest.

“What’s up with those, hipster?” she points at his glasses. Mostly to distract herself from her previous thoughts.

“You like ‘em?” he asks with baited breath.

She tucks her gun into the back of her waistband. “Sure," she looks up at him with a warm gaze, "If I was into cute, pretentious college professors who like banging their adoring student fanclub.” It slips out of her mouth so fast that she can't stop herself. She freezes before purposely concentrating on checking the ammo of her second gun. She’s glad he can’t see her blush.

"Well,” he says in a sort of husky rumble she's never heard him direct at her before, “You would surely be my favorite pupil, _mademoiselle_ Freeman."

A zing of heat rushes up her spine as her stomach clenches with inexplicable want. Glancing up, she can't tear her eyes from his hyper focused, sky-blue gaze on her. His knowing smirk doesn't cool her down either.

"At least you wouldn't fail me." She hopes it comes out a hell of a lot more smoothly than how it sounds in her ears.

"Never," he exhales.

Nile slowly blinks as he slides the glasses off his face. Mind buzzing, she almost doesn't hear him continue, voice shifting back to his usual, ever-weary tone. “They’re night vision and can pick up infrared signatures. No longer need those hefty, ridiculously ugly military grade goggles, no offense,” he quickly adds.

Her laugh is like a balm on his heart. The way she throws back her head into it makes it ring even more true. “I hated those things back when I was on mission in the Marines. Bulky as hell. Not to mention, they’d get scratched up if you breathed on them hard and couldn’t hold up to sand or dust particles.” 

She doesn’t say her old military branch with nearly as much regret as she used to. Then again, it’s been nearly four decades since she had to leave them behind. 

“I got a guy on the mainland who makes them to spec,” he humble brags. “I can hook you up with him, if you like?”

“I’ll take you up on the offer when this is all over,” she nods.

He puts his glasses back on and turns towards the terminal before spinning back around to face her. “Soooo,” he slowly begins, “Who hired you?”

“Who hired _you?”_ she crosses her arms.

He eyes her before replying, “The protestors.”

Her surprise is written all over her face. “Me too.”

“To steal the surveillance protocols and then render the system useless?” he waves at the commander center behind him.

Her smirk meets him. “More like to blow up the whole data center. It’ll keep communists who have been harassing everyone disabled well after the election. Along with sending a pretty strident message.”

Booker lets out a low whistle of admiration when she reveals the batches of C4 and detonator from her backpack. “That’ll pack a fucking punch.”

“Thanks,” she smiles. “Since all the security is electronic now, there’s no civvies around to get injured.” 

They stare at each other for a while until Booker pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes for a moment. “How’d I not know about another group sabotaging the same data farm?” Letting out an annoyed sigh, he looks up at the ceiling, as though the glossy tiling will give him answers. When it doesn’t, his gaze snaps back to Nile.

She shrugs and then waves at him for an apparent answer. He does the same thing right back, not expecting her little grin of amusement at his reaction.

It suddenly dawns on her, the realization washing across her face. “The mix up isn't our fault. It's because the cells-”

“Don’t talk to each other,” Booker finishes her thought.

“Safer that way,” she nods in agreement. “It’s how it was in Afghanistan, with ISIS and all of the other break away groups. Even if you capture one, they have no idea what the other hands are up to.” Holstering her second gun, she adds, "Keeps Big Brother on their toes."

“‘Cept these aren't terrorists,” he affirms.

She fiddles with the cuffs of her tactical gloves as she replies, “I can agree with that…we should both finish our missions.”

He shrugs. “Just as long you don’t plan to kill me again.”

“Pinkie swear on it?” she holds up her finger with an amused look.

“Why not?” he wraps his own pinkie around hers.

They agree to meet at one of the back gates and synchronize their watches to the window of time. Nile also tosses him a spare earpiece from her backpack so that they can communicate. Booker then slides back into the chair at the terminal while Nile leaves to plant the explosives in the rest of the building. It takes over an hour for him to transfer the hack of surveillance parameters to his hard storage keys. He also uploads a virus into the servers, which will automatically back everything up into the cloud. Even if they’re able to work from the backups once Nile blows up the place, they’ll still be good and proper fucked.

They clear out of the facility and hike their way up a hill just to the east of it. The drone Nile brought with her does one last sweep for thermal signatures before she uses her tablet from her backpack to call it back to their location. It whirs above the two of them before it collapses in onto itself, folding down into a smooth metal box no larger than a card deck.

Nile pulls out the detonator from an inner pocket of her vest and flips open the trigger.

"Bang, bang, _boom,"_ she sing-songs before pressing the button.

The roar of the explosion hits their ears, followed by the blast of flames licking up into the night sky. The protestors will be ecstatic. Miles ahead of the violent opposition, they'll be able to finally fight back on equal footing with the hacked info that Booker’s already uploaded to their cloud. The destruction of the server farm should serve as a visceral warning. Nile wishes she could be there to see the looks on the assholes' faces when they realize it.

They watch it in silence for a long while before Booker glances over to see Nile reach a finger up to her ear. At the same time he says, “Fantastic job, kiddo.”

“Thanks," she beams at him only for her expression to slide to serious as she mutters, "It’s done, Falcon 1.”

Booker shoots her look of panic blended with resignation. He knows that call sign perfectly well. It’s confirmed as she gives him a sheepish look.

 _“Is that Booker?!”_ comes Joe’s voice buzzing from her earpiece, _“I’d recognize that lying voice anywhere!”_

Booker swiftly realizes she shouldn’t have taken so long to answer back. Joe has the best bullshit detector behind Andy. Hell, he’s nearly on par with her.

_“The hell is he doing there?! Is he stalking you, Sparrow 1? Because if he is, I swear on the most high and holy that I’ll…”_

Nile grimaces at Joe’s understandable tirade. Afterall, Joe (and the rest of them) was betrayed by his friend, someone who he considered brother in all but blood. She'd be livid too. Hell, she was still smarting from how Dizzy and Jay weren't there for her after her first death.

Clearing his throat, Booker whispers, “I should go-”

Her hand snaps out to take him by the forearm and tug him closer. “NO,” her mouth sharply forms the reply. She shoots Booker a look before she decisively tells Joe as soon as he catches a breath, “You know if you want to talk to him you can.”

_"You do that, Sparrow 1!”_

She takes out the earpiece and hands it over to him. “Unless you want to pass on this?” Booker’s nod is barely perceptible as his fingers slip against hers to take the earpiece. “I’ve turned the volume down to the lowest setting to account for, um, the yelling,” she whispers.

_“Merci.”_

He lets Joe get it all out, the older man’s anger only slightly dulled in the decades since he’s seen him. Nile hovers next him and less than arm’s length away. Her sheer presence proves exceptionally heartening.

"Oh and Booker?” Joe sounds like he wrapping it up.

"Yeah?"

"Eat _aaallll_ the dicks."

"That doesn't sound too unpleasant," Booker drawls right back.

"It will be when you choke on them, traitor!"

A murmur of Italian immediately starts up after Joe’s insult. It causes Joe to immediately stop while Booker closes his eyes for a long moment. "I miss you too, Nicky," he exhales.

 _"Prego,"_ comes the gentle reply _._ _"Il tempo passa così lentamente, lo sai."_

 _“_ _Spero di vederti presto.”_ Despite his fluid Italian, Booker fails to keep his voice steady. Especially at Nick’s reply.

“ _Lo farai._ _Assicurati di prenderti cura di te per noi, sì?_ ”

_“Lo farò per te, Nicolò.”_

"You know what I don't miss?" Joe snaps out.

Booker can't help replying, even though he knows exactly how this is going to go. "Let me guess-"

"Being betrayed!"

Booker takes a deep inhale before he quietly says. "I deserve that. I'm sorry, Yusuf."

There's a long pause before Joe demands to know where in the hell Nile is. Booker informs him that she's still standing right there next to him. He swears on his life that he hears grumbling on the line in reply.

"Missyoutooyoustupidasshole."

Booker can't help his fleeting grin. "Hey, Joe? Think the line's got some static. You'll have to speak up."

"I didn't say jack shit to you," Joe insists with deep offense. "Now put Nile back on already, you piece of shi-"

Booker pries the earpiece out of his ear and hands it over to her. "It's for you."

"I figured as much," she takes it from him and pops it back into her ear. But not before she reaches out and squeezes his hand for a few seconds.

She’s on the line for a few more minutes. Booker tunes out her chatter, tilting his head back to take in the stary night. The moon is half out, barely surrounded by fog. Unfortunately, can’t remember the names of the various constellations in this part of the world.

He slightly startles at Nile’s hand back in his. Spinning around to face her, his eyes flick down to the earpiece she holds in her other one.

“She wants to talk to you,” Nile swallows.

Booker takes it, willing his hand not to shake. He fails at that endeavor while Nile quietly takes a few steps away to avoice eavesdropping.

They make surprisingly fluid small talk. Mostly, it’s Booker telling Andy where he’s been, the jobs he’s pulled. When he asks after Quynh, he’s met with her brief yet soulful laughter. With time running out due to her lost immortality, Quynh sticks to her side like glue nowadays. Even when out on the less dangerous missions, she is the left hand to Andy's right. It’s strangely domestic. Judging by the serenity in Andy’s voice, she approves. 

He dodges her questions whenever she asks about anything outside of that. Like if he's eating enough and drinking less. Or if he's sleeping more and dreaming as much. They both know she’s allowing him to do so, considering how long her interrogation skills have been honed.

They finally round their way to the end of the conversation. “You’ll take care of Nile.” It’s not a question. A command, if ever there was one.

“I’m good for it…for her,” Booker quickly corrects himself.

“Good.” There’s a long pause before Andy softly says, “Love you, Sebastian.”

“Love you too, Andromache.” 

He immediately passes Nile the earpiece again while rapidly turning away to wipe the tears from his face. She pretends not to notice for both their sakes.

Lucky for him, Nile takes a long time to end the call. Mostly with promises that she can look after herself and that she’ll be fine. She waits a few minutes before swatting at his hand to get his attention. Head snapping up, he dabs at his eyes, straightens his shoulders and takes a deep, lingering breath before he turns around to face her. 

“How long ‘til you have go back?” he plasters a smile on his face. 

Nile slightly narrows her eyes, like she can see straight through him. He feels his expression falter as she then rolls her eyes and retorts, “I can go back whenever _I_ _want.”_

Normally, he’d snicker at the petulance in her voice. The way she shrugs and huffily replies reminds him of a bristling teenager when a parent’s trying to set a curfew. 

“Let me rephrase that,” he waves up a hand in surrender, “When does Andy want you back?” 

She sighs and throws back her head. “72 hours...I didn’t promise her that,” she meets his gaze again, “Just a check in.”

“You shouldn’t worry them so much,” he lightly scolds, “They’re family.”

“I have no worries when I’m with you,” she murmurs. 

He’s at a loss for words for so long that he’s left to silently nod in affirmation when she suggests they grab a drink at a bar back in the city. After they head back to their respective hotels and clean up, up of course.

“See you in a bit, Booker,” she assures him before she heads in the opposite direction down the embankment.

* * *

Nile insists on buying the first round. “I killed you first,” she faintly says while trying to flag down the bartender behind the crowded bar.

She tucks a loose box braid back up into the high bun she’s styled. While devoid of beading this time, the dark braids have streaks of aubergine plaited into them. The gleaming purple vivid and dark, the color beautifully accentuates the undertones of her rich skin. She’s also changed into a short sleeved, V-neck t-shirt, green camo cargo pants and red, white and blue Air Force 1s (he can’t believe they’re still manufacturing those sneakers all these decades later). Glittery silver earrings dangle from her ears. Her gold cross remains draped about her neck.

“Except I stabbed you first,” Booker retorts. There’s no bite to his words.

“So get the next round if you feel that guilty,” she bumps into his side with a laugh before flouncing off to order. Booker's eyes dart around to take everything in before he takes a long swig from his flask.

The bar's located on the roof of an old apartment building dating back from just after World War II. The grey concrete walls are covered in vintage travel posters framed in various colors. Steel grey, square and rectangular tables are surrounded by matching metal bench seating. Only the bar itself contains any hint of luxury. Its long, maple slab is polished to a high shine. There appears to be over a hundred different liquor bottles stacked up against the mirrored back wall behind it. The shelves have pulsing LED lights that move in time to the bouncy jazz remixes of various pop songs piped in over the speakers.

The clientele is a mixture of casually dressed western expats and locals. Booker’s black button-down shirt, light wash jeans and mid-top trainers fit right in. He’s rolled up the sleeves to his forearms on account of the heat. The air conditioning can barely be heard over all the noise.

Nile returns with their drinks. A whiskey neat for him. A sidecar cocktail for her. Its blend of orange liqueur, cognac and lemon juice are the bite to the sugared rim of her glass. Her thoroughly sinful moan as she takes a sip has him holding his breath in anticipation. His skin feels achingly tight across his bones when she follows it up with a quick lick at her lower lip.

 _Merde_.

“I take it that’s good?” he clears his throat while looking away from her.

“That and then some,” her eyes pop open. “And yours, Booker?”

He swirls the alcohol in his glass to continue to avoid taking her in. “Surprisingly not shitty...you sound like you want to ask me a non-related question, Nile.”

He hears her quiet huff and feels her lean in closer. How she’s spun around to sit sideways on the bar stool with her feet perched up on the its bottom rung means her knees are now touching his outer thigh.

“How old were you when you first died?”

“41,” he swiftly retorts before finishing off the rest of his whiskey. Slamming the glass on the bar top, he flags down the server for shots this time. “I was just a fortnight from my birthday,” he thoughtfully adds.

“Sooooo, an old-ass man, then?” Nile's smile lights up his world.

“Damn Millennials,” he grins. “But yeah, back when I was born? I was old as hell when I kicked the bucket. Folks were lucky to make it to 50, especially if you were anything but rich."

"Class warfare, am I right?" she sarcastically replies.

"Same shit, different century," he clinks his shot glass against hers. Knocking it back, he winces at the peppery, vanilla infused taste of the _kaoliang_ liquor as it goes down.

Nile follows in his stead, downing her shot as well. "The lack of tech back then must have sucked too."

"No antibiotics. No vaccines. No decently milled soap. No concept of regularly washing your goddamn hands." Nile wrinkles her nose with disgust. Booker lets out a brief chuckle at her reaction before he laments, "The fallout from Revolution didn’t help life expectancy either. There's a reason they call it The Reign of Terror. Craven fuckers.”

He's slurring now.

They order another round of drinks before retreating to one the tables in the back of the establishment. When they arrive, they each finish off a shot. There's four more lined up on the table in between them.

“Why’d you do it?” she casually asks without a hint of warning. It’s completely opposite to her flinty gaze as she sips her whiskey sour. She's so young that Booker sometimes forgets she's a veteran. Trained, diligent and without room for bullshit. It doesn’t stop him from tossing out a stupid-ass response to exactly what he knows she's talking about.

The betrayal.

“Don’t know-”

“Not good enough,” she cuts him off. “Why’d you do it?” Her dark eyes are unyielding, boring into his soul over the rim of her glass.

“The money was good,” he lamely retorts while still refusing to meet her eyes.

She sharply shakes her head in disagreement. “So you betrayed your whole family for just _that?”_ It’s not said with anger. Or hysteria. Or accusation. In fact, it’s said so flatly that they could be discussing something as trivial as the weather. Which in a certain way, makes it worse.

“Try again,” she firmly says, “Why’d you do it?”

Fuck. He had to lose himself to the one person in the group who used to be a professional interrogator.

“I wasn’t thinking straight-”

“That’s not the real answer and you know it.” He rapidly blinks at how she stares him down, expression completely inscrutable. _“Pourquoi as-tu fait ça,_ Booker _?”_

Her French contains a distinctly American accent but is otherwise perfect.

“You live long enough? You mere existence starts to fill you with horror," he tiredly wipes a hand down his face. "Which makes it all sorts of fucked up when there's no way to actively end it; the gift of death on our own terms is denied to us.”

It’s the first honest reply that pops into his head. Nile must agree, judging by her silence.

“Except you don’t realize you’re a piece of shit who doesn’t have the right to determine the rest of your family’s path until you’re watching your oldest friend bleeding out on the floor because your fucked-up timing coincided with her losing her immortality. _That’s_ when I fucking knew it.”

“Knew what?” Her words are like a flutter of breath between them.

“That…there is no forgiveness.”

An aching sob claws its way from his throat before he can suppress it. The roar of his heartbeat in his ears doesn’t allow him to hear Nile’s bench scrape on the floor. She moves so swiftly to sit next to him that it’s impossible to shove her away as she envelopes him against her. Her embrace bears no loathing or indifference. Rather, it warms him to his core.

It's like coming home.

They have no idea how long they stay entwined. Nor the time it takes for Nile to stop lightly rocking him back and forth. He feels ashamed of the catharsis he’s unleashed upon her. Yet when he tries to silently slide away, she doesn’t let him go.

"Here’s a bit of trivia for you,” she continues leisurely soothing a hand through his hair. She doesn’t seem to mind how his tears soak the collar of her t-shirt. “Back in the States, there's only four crimes that don't have a statute of limitations."

"Yeah?" Booker breathes into her collarbone as he sways in his seat. He notices she doesn’t call it home anymore. A side effect of all of their conditions.

"Yeah," she repeats.

He cautiously pulls back even as his hand remains at her knee and hers rests on his forearm. "Enlighten me," he gives a drunken wave.

"Murder, kidnapping, tax evasion," she taps out on the table, "And treason."

"Got me on all counts," he snorts, "That's a bingo."

"Seriously?" her voice goes high with disbelief, "Tax evasion too?"

"Can't pay 'em if you're technically _dead,”_ the corner of his mouth quirks upward.

Her smile is loopy as she leans her head on his shoulder and lifts her hand for a thumbs up. “Counterargument accepted.”

He sucks down another shot. After it settles in his stomach, he rasps, "Thanks for humoring me."

“Don't have to thank me," she quietly retorts. "Besides, I really did want to let you go with just an apology,” she mutters. “Like, sure, yeah, you fucked up. _Royally._ But what was it you said? About grief?” He’s glad she recalls it before he has to. _“What would you know of the weight of all these years alone?_ It’s- _”_

“Not an excuse Nile.”

“Didn’t say it was,” she sighs. “It’ll never be. There are no excuses. And you are in dire need of therapy on your own for all of that."

Booker adamantly nodded. "I'm working on sorting that out, trust me."

She looked at him for another long moment before finishing off her drink. After a deep breath, she murmured, "The reasoning behind the violation you did? It’s no walk in the park…I-I’m realizing that with each passing decade.”

He wraps an arm around her shoulder to run his palm up and down her upper arm. Her eyes slide closed, allowing his warmth to blanket her. It only grows as he drops a quick kiss to her temple.

“I know,” he whispers against her, “That’s why the young are always purer of heart than the old dogs. Thing is, you’re still young, _ma chérie._ So young.”

As she picks up another shot glass, he follows her lead to clink his against hers. “I’ll drink to that.”

“Same.”

* * *

The bar is open 24/7 on account of the frenetic nightlife of Keelung, so there’s no need to leave until the sun comes up. Nile’s luggage is in a storage locker at the ferry dock. Booker of course volunteers to accompany to her on the walk there. So they stumble out, crashing together in drunken motion as their bodies swiftly metabolize the various poisons they’ve imbibed. The exercise of the walk sobers up both of them even faster.

It's nice to have a clear conversation just shooting the shit for the half hour Nile waits for the first ferry to leave. It goes by far faster than she wishes.

When it’s time for her to go, Booker gives her a kiss of goodbye on each cheek. He once again chalks it up to his usual native customs.

 _Frenchman’s gonna French it up_ , he imagines her laughing aloud as she tilts her chin and offers up her face to him. Which is why he’s not expecting her to do the same in return. The firm press of her full mouth against his scruffy cheeks is like a lightning strike each time. He’s barely able to react to how she then pulls him into her tight grasp.

“See you around sometime, Booker,” she murmurs into his shirt. He might be imagining it, but he swears she takes a deep inhale of him before she pulls away and swiftly walks up the ramp of the ferry.

This time, he doesn’t turn away as the boat departs with her on it. It takes him burning through three full cigarettes until the sight of it disappears over the horizon.

63 more years to go.

Not that he’s fucking counting or anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Notes and Translations:**
> 
> _“One bright day, in the middle of the night…”_ is and old folk poem from the UK. There are various versions of it, so I used the shorter one. 
> 
> _"mon oisillon"_ \- "my little bird" in French, a term of endearment.
> 
>  _“ma bonne amie”_ – “my good friend (feminine)” in French.
> 
>  _“Merci”_ – “Thanks” in French.
> 
> _"Il tempo passa così lentamente, lo sai."_
> 
> _“Spero di vederti presto."_
> 
> _"Lo farai."_
> 
> _"Assicurati di prenderti cura di te per noi, sì?"_  
>    
> _"Lo farò per te, Nicky”_
> 
> "The time passes so slowly, you know" in Italian.
> 
> “I hope to see you soon" in Italian.
> 
> "You will." in Italian.
> 
> "Be sure to take care of yourself for us, yes?" in Italian.
> 
> "I will for you, Nicolò” in Italian.
> 
>  _“Merde”_ – “Shit” in French. 
> 
> _kaoliang_ \- a distilled Chinese hard liquor made from fermented sorghum plants. Kinmen Distillery, KKL is a popular Taiwanese brand. 
> 
> _“Pourquoi as-tu fait ça?”_ \- “Why did you do it?” in French.
> 
> Not quite colored box braids, but KiKi rocks some gorgeous natural hair looks. This is close to what I envisioned, https://i.pinimg.com/originals/dc/3f/e9/dc3fe9ad4e29145cc1d9bc13fb9f8843.jpg 
> 
> Also, Matthias as the hot college professor who will ruin your life, https://i.pinimg.com/564x/53/fc/82/53fc82209525a3cb64e52f694f7fd201.jpg


	3. Dakar, Senegal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Booker needs therapy, y’all. You’ve been warned.

**Dakar, Senegal**

Booker’s always had a deep and abiding hatred of government embezzlement. Stealing from the people’s hard-earned coin to line one’s pockets for utterly selfish reasons (who in the fuck needs a private hover train these days anyway?) makes his blood boil. He blames it on his formative years during the Revolution. The Napoleonic aftermath wasn’t much better. An infinite line of empty men with empty words that lead to empty deaths on blood-soaked battlefields as far as the eye could see. All while they got richer and the poor got poorer.

Fuck them all.

He gets a tip on financial shenanigans going down in Senegal. The country has flourished over the last few decades and is a jewel among its neighbors. Nevertheless, the current economic downturn has emboldened the less righteous. Most of the sketchy activity seems to be coming from a certain highly placed government official’s office within the Presidential Palace in the capital of Dakar.

Not on his watch.

The web group who contacts him is well connected. They’re able to send him an official invitation to an art opening gala on the palace grounds. Thankfully, they’re not as anonymous as they like to think they are; he’s able to trace their backgrounds and somewhat subpar VPNs to ensure he doesn’t get caught up in the political bullshit of one corrupt party setting up and ratting out another one just to replace them with more nonsense. It turns out they’re a loose cadre of whistle blowers and reporters who take their civic duties seriously. He’s in an accommodating mood, so he lets them know how to tighten up their digital footprint and security. He doesn’t even charge them extra for that tidbit of information. 

The Presidential Palace is a sprawling, three story compound overlooking the Atlantic. Painted brilliant white and built in a Palladian Neoclassical style, it’s surrounded by heavy security forces and enclosed with a twelve-foot-high, black wrought-iron gate. Right now, the gate is open. A red carpet is rolled out with flood lights rotating back and forth across the night sky on account of the art gala. Projected onto the palace in holographic fonts is the name of the exhibition.

The domed atrium located at the center of the palace is three stories high with circular walkways winding around the rotunda of each floor. White marble Doric columns support the structure, which is large enough to comfortably fit the hundreds of guests for tonight’s event.

Infiltration is a snap. A scan of his invitation, going through the metal detectors and being wanded down grants him entry. Booker’s ushered into the black-tie event without incident.

He fiddles with his blue and gold cufflinks while strolling along the edges of the atrium. It makes it appear like his thoughts are elsewhere. In reality, he's taking stock of the security guards, both uniformed and plainclothes. The plainclothed have earpieces and aren't engaging with anyone but each other. It makes them stick out like sore thumbs. They're also why Booker doesn’t notice her until she’s only a few feet across the atrium from him.

 _Pour l'amour de Dieu_ , he reels at the sight of Nile swanning through the guests. Her strappy, gold heels click across the inlaid marble floor until she stops right in front of him.

“I can’t possibly look that terrible,” Nile says, affronted. “Not considering how much Nicky spent on this,” she waves at her dress.

Shit, he’d said it out loud.

“Italian, of course?” he distractedly replies to cover himself, “You know, since it’s Nicky and all.” 

Her shy grin has his heart racing. “Atelier Versace,” she murmurs, her pronunciation flawless. “Think I can put a down payment on a freakin’ villa for how much it cost.”

The strappy gold gown shimmers with silver beading that catches the light with each movement. It fits her like a glove through the bodice before falling in sheer waves to the floor. Her long legs exquisitely framed by the layers of gauzy fabric, there’s a constant tease of bronzed skin on account of the thigh-high slit on the left side. Her hair is braided back in crisscrossed cornrows to the crown of her head. The rest of it is loose and free in a beautifully curly afro. Outside of a dangle of gold chandelier earrings, she needs no other adornment. Cherry red lips and dark, smokey eyeshadow are offset by a subtle sheen of gold highlight delicately brushed across her cheekbones.

“Trust me,” Booker rumbles, “It’s worth every penny.”

“Likewise,” she gestures at his suit. Reaching up to straighten out his black silk tie, she flattens its knot a slight bit.

Does it need to be fixed? He doesn’t really know. Does he care that she’s doing it? Of fucking course not. Not with how her fingers linger along his lapels.

Her hand slides to the front buttons to brush off an apparent loose thread. “Nice suit,” she compliments. The slim cut emphasizes his broad shoulders and height. “You and I both know you have expensive tastes too. So who should I be thanking for it?”

“Louis Vuitton,” he offhandedly waves.

She brings a hand to her mouth in a fake gasp of wonder, gaze going humorously wide. “Impressive!”

The corners of his eyes crinkle in amusement. “If only so you can tell Nicky how we French obviously excel compared to his Italian brethren when it comes to _haute couture.”_

“Am I going to have to break up a fight over this when you come back?” she crosses her arms in mock reproach.

He exhales with relief when he doesn’t feel the usual cruel tug of loneliness at the prospect of the years he has to go before he can see them again. Not with her here right now. “Depends on my mood,” he assures her. Leaning in so that only she can hear him, he adds, “Feels like I just saw you.”

“Eleven years,” she swiftly replies.

“I see you’re keeping track?” he shoots her a heated, half lidded look.

Her gaze rakes over him in a similar, appraising fashion before her dark eyes meet his again. “Why wouldn’t I be, Booker?” she drawls while leaning over to greet him with a lingering kiss to each of his scruffy cheeks. "By the way, hi," she pulls away with genuine cheer, "Good to see you."

"That's always true of you too, Nile," he returns her gesture to kiss her cheeks in that French greeting way. As Senegal was a former French colony, neither of their actions are out of place.

A server swings by with a fresh tray of drinks and Nile takes two flutes of champagne from it. She passes one to him as he scopes out the two plainclothes security guards on the edge of his periphery. “Should I wonder if you’re here at the Presidential Palace for the same reasons I am?” he hums.

Her reply is as sardonic as her smirk. “I’m just here for the art. Oh, and the food,” she brightly adds as a server presents a tray of mini quiches and stuffed salmon sprinkled with chives on a stick. She pops one of each into her mouth and nods with approval.

He clinks his glass against hers. “Humor me,” he winks. 

“Embezzlement via siphoning cash and assets from the healthcare slush fund by a certain Deputy Legislator in Ms. Esther Diop? No matter how she hides behind being a champion against childhood poverty?” Nile muses aloud, glancing sideways at him. “All of that bullshit? Yeah, it needs to get exposed.”

Booker can’t help his brief smile. “Look at us, _mademoiselle_ Freeman,” he turns to face her, “So often of the same _modus operandi._ Let me guess, Copley figured you needed a breezy assignment rather than the usual guns, ammo and explosions?”

“Copley the Second,” she corrects.

"The second?" Booker questions.

Nile tersely shakes her head. "Before he passed away a decade ago, Original Flavor Copley trained his favorite granddaughter to take over. We figure it's safer to keep our secrets in the same family. So, Copley _numéro deux.”_

Booker shrugs, "Ah, makes sense. In the meantime, how do you plan to access the restricted area?” he questions.

“Elevator’s too risky, so service stairs through the kitchen,” Nile shrugs. “People always get lost looking for a bathroom, don’t you know? Especially when cameras get looped remotely and over an hour ago.”

Booker looks taken aback. “And here I was getting all complicated with repelling up to the roof to drop down into her office via the windows. Which may or may not be locked from the inside. Or may or may not have rather sophisticated motion and thermal detection capabilities.”

“In that expensive-ass suit?” Nile arches a brow before taking a sip of her drink. “ _Really,_ though?”

Booker leans in, leaving mere millimeters between them. “Perhaps I should acquiesce to your methods then?”

Nile feels her heart speed up at his proximity in the best of ways. She goes with it, reaching up to playfully pat his cheek. “As you should,” she reiterates. How he catches her in his impudent gaze causes her to take a deep breath before her eyes dart away to where more servers have emerged from one of the heavy, wooden paneled doors to her left. “Give me ten minutes,” she nods towards them.

“Deal,” he softly agrees.

Soon, they’re on the third floor and breaking into Diop’s office. Nile already remotely breached the servers and uploaded an untraceable virus weakening the digital security three weeks ago. The last step is breaking the verification required for physical file download. Booker watches as she pulls out what looks to be a tube of lipstick from her clutch purse. Uncapping it reveals it’s actually a digital descrambler that needs to be plugged into the back of the server sitting on the cold, dusty floor.

“I can do that,” he offers. At her perplexed look, he waves, “Your dress will be ruined. That would be suspicious once we get back to the exhibition.”

She smiles her thanks as he gets on the floor to dig around for the correct port. The office is dark due to the frosted glass door. While they’ve locked themselves inside, turning on any additional lights could attract the wrong kind of attention. 

“We are really out here doing some real James Bond shit,” Nile mutters.

“So you’re my Bond girl then?”

She can’t help the smile that flies to her face. Not as he looks back at her with that fiery fixation that gets her skin tingling.

“Pay attention to that, will you?” she admonishes, even as she reaches down to teasingly ruffle his hair. It’s shorter nowadays. Neatly parted to the side, the dark golden strands are slightly fluffy in a boyish way. “Besides,” she continues, “They’ve been alternating between male and female Bond for decades now. It’s a woman right now, I think,” she wrinkles her nose in contemplation. Glancing down, she smirks, “So you would be my Bond boy.”

She doesn’t miss how he leans into her touch before he purrs, _“D’accord, ma chérie.”_

She’s glad he doesn’t see her bite at her lower lip as she pulls her hand from him so he can finish hooking up the descrambler.

He's back on his feet next to her. Close enough for her to feel the warmth emanating off of him. “Why Senegal?” he asks, interrupting her thoughts as they wait for the digital descrambler to work its way through to the right combo of numbers. The thieving prick _would_ have a relatively solid security system.

She shrugs, thankful she can divert herself with answering him instead of calculating if they have enough time to get in a quickie on that sturdy desk behind them. Antique furniture usually was a sign of superior workmanship. So it should easily be able to bear their combined weight, no problem, right?  
  
“Back before I became…this,” she waves between the two of them, “I took one of those ancestry tests.” At his sharp inhale, she shakes her head in agreement. “Don’t worry, Copley the First erased all trace of me out of the system."

Booker dips his head in reply. "One is grateful for his apparent skills."

"For real." Nile looks over to the descrambler. Still time to go. "Anyway, it turns out I have a lot of DNA links to here. I’d like to think my ancestors survived the Middle Passage for a reason. Perhaps to bring me to this point with this, uh, gift we have, y’know…?” she trails off.

With the distantly sorrowful look that comes to her eyes, Booker instinctively reaches out to take her hand. She squeezes it back at his grip of reassurance.

“I figured I should pay them back for the favor,” she adds after a long while. Straightening her shoulders, she stands up a bit taller. “Plus,” she tilts her chin upwards in defiance, “Ms. Esther Diop is a thieving-ass terrible excuse for a public servant.”

“It will not stand,” Booker solemnly intones.

Her fierce smile is not to be crossed. “Not when we’re done with her.”

There’s a low chime and Booker checks his smartwatch at the same time Nile crouches to examine the display of the descrambler. “We’re in,” she grins. Moving to sit in the chair behind the desk, her fingers fly over the keys to gain access to the files buried deep within the server. Booker backs away to watch through the crack of the slightly open door for any roving security since the light from the computer screens has illuminated the room.

“Once I’m finished up with this, I’ll watch your back while you break into the safe,” Nile kicks at the small lockbox hidden under the desk.

“Teamwork,” Booker replies with sarcastic amusement while saluting from his brow. “Ingenious, by the way,” he cocks his head at her as she unclips a thumb drive that’s been cleverly concealed as part of her earrings.

She grins and sets it right on top of the server. The Bluetooth allows her to not have to physically plug it in in order to swipe the files. Along with being able to back it up into her temporary cloud storage all at the same time. With the backup, it won't matter if they’re caught and the drive’s destroyed. Then again, they certainly don't plan on either of those options occurring.

The minutes tick by until Nile calls out that she’s done. They switch places, Nile peeking around the door while Booker uses a lockpicking kit he’s sewn into the lining of his jacket to pop the safe.

“Jackpot,” he declares at the stack of various, color-coded files that are exposed within. Booker sees Diop even has some pages highlighted as he flips through them.

Nile furrows a brow. “How exactly are you going to smuggle those out?” 

“I have my methods,” he airily replies while gracefully hopping up on the wide credenza on the back wall behind the desk. It’s just below the French Casement style swing-out window. Unlatching the lock, he hauls himself up and through it.

Nile’s eyes widen when he disappears. “Booker!” she stage whispers, wildly peeking out of crack in the door.

There’s no one around, so she closes and locks it. She can’t risk turning on any of the lights, which causes her to keel right into the sharp metal edge of the desk. Letting out a curse but glad it didn’t rip her gown, she climbs up the credenza and pops her head out of the window.

“Booker?” she repeats at finding no sight of him. “Jesus Christ,” she hisses, “The fuck are you doing?!”

“I’m here,” his voice comes from somewhere above her.

A few seconds later and he’s climbing back into the office. Nile jumps to the side to avoid a collision with him. As he lands on the floor, she notices he’s carrying a metallic silver box under one arm. It’s the size of a pastry box that’s large enough to carry roughly a dozen donuts. Setting it on the desk, he presses his palm to the side. At his touch, the box lights up with a vivid array of infrared lights Nile recognizes as fingerprint analysis recognition. Its lid then slides open to expose a powerful unmanned drone.

“That’s dope as hell,” Nile nods in approval as Booker takes out the drone and sets it aside. He turns back to her with a proud grin and offers a hand to help her down from the credenza. “How’d you get it on the roof?” she lands on her feet. 

Booker’s putting the files into the box as he replies, “They had the windows cleaned a couple of days ago to prepare for the gala. I digitally paid one of the window washers to call in sick. No one ever pays any attention to the help.”

“And when Diop realizes her physical files are missing too, she’ll get the full message. Even if she erases the digital ones, she’s still cooked.”

“Precisely, _mademoiselle,_ ” Booker hums.

With all of the files loaded in the box, he clicks the lid closed and sets the drone on top of it. A tap of his smartwatch to the top of the drone causes it to whir to life. Four claws zip out from the drone’s base and tightly lock onto each side of the box. Booker punches in the coordinates on his watch, confirms his fingerprints once more and the drone sets off through the window.

Nile lets out a low whistle of appreciation. “You have _got_ to hook me up with one of those.”

“With pleasure,” he promises. His watch beeping, he grins, “The group who contacted me should receive their special delivery within the hour…I’d say we have what we came for. Care to leave?”

“I won’t fight you on that one.”

Booker ducks in front of Nile and warily opens the office door. Checking both sides of the hallway, he nods for her to follow him. She easily catches up with his long strides and ends up in front of him.

The hallways are initially deserted but Nile hears the chattering of the guards first. Booker misses it, mostly due to how wonderfully engrossing her fluid movements are in front of him.

“Need a distraction,” she orders. Oh, he can certainly think of numerous ones. The kind that have to do with the both of them being far less clothed than they currently are. “I’d prefer not to engage,” she adds.

She has a few plastic combat knives of varying lethality strategically sewn into the folds of her gown. They easily passed through the metal detectors and wanding at the entrance. At the same time, there’s absolutely no need to murder innocent security personnel just doing their jobs within an official government building. The security guard duo ahead of them are ambling about on what looks to be a standard if circuitous route to keep the party guests from getting lost and wandering. No need for escalation. 

They’re lucky, as the security team makes a sharp turn down another hallway that leads to the stairs down a floor. “So much for that,” Booker declares, “Looks like this will go off without a hitch-”

Nile abruptly yanks him around by the wrist. His surprise allows her to gain enough momentum to whip him into a corner of the long hallway. They’re partially hidden by a tall marble column and a heavy ceiling to floor tapestry on their other side. Between those and the darkness afforded them by only around a quarter of the recessed lights being on above them, it should be enough to avoid detection. Especially with Nile’s back up against the wall and Booker standing in front of her. His black suit and bulk hide most of her brightly colored gown.

Booker’s mouth opening in confusion and for an explanation, she smacks a hand over it. “Make it look like you’re, um, distracted with me.” His expression confused, she nods to where a second, different pair of security guards are rounding the corner about 40 feet to her right. It only takes him a second or two to understand what she’s asking.

He cages her in, hands pressed to the wall on either side of her head as she winds an arm around him and tugs at his lapel. It causes him to drop his chin so that his nose brushes her shoulder. At the same time, she tilts her head so that her cheek is pressed to his. To anyone else, they look like a couple lost in an intimate moment.

Nile allows her eyes to slide shut as the light scent of his cologne washes over her. It’s a blend of woodsy spice with a hint of citrus. Not in the least overwhelming but pleasantly masculine and definitely _Booker_.

Meanwhile, he never takes his eyes off of her. Taking in the measured rise and fall of her chest, her slightly parted lips and the delicate curve of her cheeks, he lets out a ragged breath. If he moved either of his hands any closer, he could trace the inviting angles of her face with his fingertips…

“They’re gone, right?”

“Hmmm?” Booker vaguely replies.

It takes her longer than she intends to reply. What, with him all flush up against her and her free arm cradling the honed muscle of his side. His warm breath caresses her neck while his fingers closest to her head have begun slightly dancing their way along the edges of her curls.

She doesn’t mind the heady distraction.

“Can’t see past this column,” she tilts her head in its direction. “They were moving pretty slow. Still, they should have passed us by now.”

Nile could swear his eyes dart down to her mouth. She finds herself doing the same, looking to how the corner of his lips curl upward. She also realizes she’s never noticed the light scattering of freckles across his nose. Their contrast proves absurdly endearing on such strong features.

He finally looks to his left. “Looks like you’re right, _mademoiselle_ ,” he drawls, “All clear _.”_ He pushes himself off the wall and follows as she leads them down to the stairs.

“So, what’s on the menu for exfil?” he asks once they’ve snuck their way back into the exhibition.

They used the service stairs through the kitchen again, the serving area within chaotic enough that no one notices them. They both know it’s a bad idea to linger in the wake of an operation. It wasn’t considered completed until you fled the scene of the crime and were back at the safehouse or rendezvous point.

Nile grabs some sort of caviar roll appetizer off of a passing tray and pops it into her mouth. “We hang around for a bit to not look overly suspicious,” she confirms, “”Then I fake food poisoning to get out of here…where are you staying?”

“The hotel right up the street,” Booker replies. He grabs more champagne from another server and hands her one. “Taking the train out tomorrow afternoon.”

“Really now?” she questions with a subdued laugh. “The first place they’re going to lockdown and search once they realize the breach in a few hours will be the most expensive hotel in the city that mostly serves western tourists. The place screams spies and corporate espionage from the outside.”

Booker has to admit she’s right. “So where are you staying, oh wise one?” he sips his champagne.

She tilts her head for a bit, taking in the security guards on the second and third floors rotunda above them still meandering about. None of them look alarmed. Good. “Rented a short-term apartment a few miles from here. Took a taxi in and will take one back. It’s a five-minute walk to the main hub train station and there’s barely any traffic cameras on that side of town.”

“That so?” Booker says. He’s hip to hip with her but facing in the opposite direction. She glances over to where he’s clocking the security guards too.

“Mm-hmm,” she nods, "You can stay there. I'm driving out of town around the same time, from the sounds of it."

He turns to her, grin mischievous. “You don’t have to ask me twice, Nile.”

They stick to their plan of staying at the exhibition. Now that they’ve found each other, there’s no need to engage in pointless small talk with anyone else in order to blend in. That also creates less of a risk of being remembered.

Booker doesn’t find the need to talk much, Nile engrossed in the art. She favors the sculptures. The breadth and depth of the country’s tribes are covered beyond the main groups of the Wolof, Fula and Serer. Some of the pieces date back hundreds of years before French colonization. The vast majority are modern, including 3D printed ones incorporating other more avant-garde visual elements. Others are comprised of reclaimed and recycled materials.

Booker almost wishes they didn’t have to abscond with their stolen data. Nile is once again in her element, similar to back when they spent the day at the Uffizi. Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end.

Nile fakes suddenly coming down with a stomach bug so well, she deserves an award for Best Contrived Illness Without a Need For Fake Vomiting. She even manages to charm one of the plainclothes into calling her a cab. Booker plays at being her put-upon date who tries to get her to stay. He even mutters his alleged annoyance as the guard courteously ushers them both into the car. They suppress the urge to burst into laughter at the showiness of it all in the back of the cab to keep up their covers.

After Booker checks out of his hotel, they hail another ride to Nile’s place. When they arrive, Booker doesn’t realize that she’s had them stop a few blocks from the apartment within the sleepy, suburban neighborhood.

“Constant vigilance!” Nile jauntily exclaims as they start walking after she explains she prefers to remain cautious. At Booker’s puzzled look, she adds, “Harry Potter?” His bemusement causes her to giggle. “Oh, dear lord on high, you really _are_ old. Wait,” she points a finger at him, “Why do they call you Booker again? Because Potter is…was kind of a major kids' to young adult novel thing. And you were definitely alive back when the whole series first dropped.”

“I am an _adult_ ,” he retorts with no sting behind it. Nile rolls her eyes and lightly pinches his side. He lets out a dramatic _“Ouch!”_ causing her to laugh.

“Don’t be like this,” she chides.

“Like what?” he retorts, waggling his brows.

Her voice goes deep with an exaggerated French accent. “I am _Booker_ and I only read _first editions_ of literary _classics_ that are heavy enough to use as a door stopper and/or beat someone’s head in with. Who is this magical wizard child you speak of?!”

He retaliates by pinching her in the side as well. She’s too slow to slap his hand away but it doesn’t really matter as she hears his chuckle bubble up. “Firstly,” he admonishes, “That is a terrible rendition of an accent of my home country and I am offended on behalf of the whole of the Republic.” She coughs down a laugh as he continues, “Secondly, I sound absolutely nothing like that.”

“I beg to differ,” she purses her lips in reproach, eyes sparkling.

He can’t deny he finds it far more attractive than he has any right to. So he plunges onto his third reason to finish his point. “Lastly, I will have you know that I did not say I _wouldn’t_ read it. You decided to jump to conclusions on my literary tastes.”

She claps him on the back. “You should get them second hand.”

“But first editions-?”

“No need to give the estate any more money. Trust me,” Nile swiftly retorts. “But they’re worth the read all the same…give me a minute,” she abruptly says, “And your arm.”

Booker swaps his duffle bag to his other shoulder and holds out his arm without hesitation. He easily bears her weight as she uses it to balance while unbuckling her heels. “ _Fuck,_ these things are killing me. Don’t care if we only have a block to go,” she relieves her feet of them. Her moan of relief causes his cheeks to warm. He’s grateful that it’s dark out with little in the way of street lighting.

The sidewalks clean and even, she still keeps her steps careful to avoid stepping on anything sharp. Sure, any injury will close right back up. That doesn’t make the pain of potentially fucking up her feet hurt any less.

They reach the small block of apartments and she keys in. Her rental is on the second floor in a secluded corner. It’s older but recently renovated, with pale grey stucco walls and white laminate flooring that matches the crown molding. Just a living room, tiny kitchen and bedroom with an en-suite bathroom. A flatscreen TV sits mounted on the wall opposite a window facing a back alley. The furniture is an eclectic mish-mash of French and British design upholstered in native patterns.

Booker eyes the dark red, velvet Chesterfield style sofa in the middle of the living room. It’s slightly overstuffed and looks relatively comfortable for the night. “I’ll sleep on that,” he nods in its direction.

“Works for me,” Nile loudly yawns, stretching her arms over her head and closing her eyes. “Feel free to grab whatever you want from the fridge,” she opens them. “TV remote is on the kitchen counter if you’re bored. Let me go grab some spare blankets and a pillow for the sofa,” she retreats to her bedroom.

Changing out of her dress and into sleep shorts and a camisole, Nile washes her face before gathering up what he needs. She returns to find that Booker’s taken off his jacket, loosened his tie and is in the process of removing his cufflinks. Nile can’t deny appreciating the view before setting the bedding on the sofa.

“Here you go,” she chirps.

“Thanks,” he distractedly replies before setting his cufflinks on the counter behind him. Looking up, he swallows at the sight of her ready for bed. Eyes flitting over her, he forces himself to then focus on her face. Even then, his mind meanders all about her.

They stare at each other for a long moment before Booker moves first, albeit with deliberate strides to her. She doesn’t back out of his hug. “Thank you for lending me your couch,” his words dance on her ear.

Wrapping her arms around him and breathing him in, she steadily replies, “Anytime, Booker. Like I said, it’s always good to see you.”

She withdraws only for him to grant her a kiss on each cheek. _“Bonne nuit_ , Nile,” he softly declares.

“Same to you,” she can’t help but grin.

It takes forever for Nile to fall asleep in her bed. All because of the man currently sleeping on the other side of the wall from her.

* * *

Sébastien’s dreamed of his own execution before. Oddly enough, it’s never been from the perspective of outside of his body and watching himself die.

He’s dressed in modern clothes. None of the troops who’ve come to watch him hang for desertion seem to see him where he’s standing right next to the tree they’d chosen for his demise.

There was no time to build proper gallows with a trap door. So they’d simply strung him up to a sturdy tree branch with a noose around his neck. Hands tied behind his back, they set him on a horse they planned to whip out from under him. The force of the drop was supposed to break his neck all the same. Conversely, they all knew that wasn’t a guarantee. It could take him excruciating minutes to strangle to death. 

He refused to be blindfolded or have a sack put over his head. Let them all see the ugliness of the death they forced upon him for refusing to fight in this god-forsaken war. It’s not as though he was given a real choice in the matter. Nor had anyone attempted to stop the megalomaniac who led them on a hopeless invasion through motherfucking _Russia_. 

Napoléon could suck his dick from the back, for all he cared.

The executioner, some old man of an officer who Sébastien’s always despised, reads out the charges of desertion. _“Que Dieu ait pitié de votre âme,”_ the officer/executioner drones in closing

Modern Sébastien rolls his eyes and flicks away his cigarette. He doesn’t need any sort of mercy for his soul. Because there’s none of it fucking left.

As the chaplain begins the Lord’s Prayer, they whip the horse and it flees in panic.

He’s lucky. It’s a heavy fall and a quick snap. All done now.

Except he knows it’s not the end.

By the accounts of the rest of the immortals, the first death takes a while to recover from. They suspect it’s so that the new ones have enough time to be put away so that no one sees them resuscitated. That in turn allows them to escape their old lives. It was the same for him.

Problem is, the troops haven’t wandered away to gossip about what’s just happened. They still stand around as his eyes snap open. It’s patently obvious he’s not dead, the sounds of him now slowly choking to death carrying across the battlefield. Yet no one seems to be panicking and screaming for God to deliver them from this devilry they’re witnessing.

Sébastien watches himself die and return a half dozen times.

“Enough of this bullshit,” he growls in disgust. No one reacts. Not even as he shoves his way through the crowd of soldiers to get to the executing officer.

“You evidently don’t know how to properly hang me,” Sébastien snarls. “ _D’accord,_ I will show you an example then.”

His hands snap around the man’s wretched neck, squeezing with all of his strength. The officer’s eyes bug out. Tongue lolling from his mouth, he struggles for the air that’s not coming. His thin fingers claw at Sébastien’s forearms hard enough to draw blood. Except the skin heals and rends itself back together with every fresh cut.

None of the troops standing around watching the hanging seem to detect that the same man is slowly killing one of their highest ranked officers right in front of them. It’s a sea of bored faces. All the same nondescript bodies in their crisp blue and white uniforms. Gold buttons shining, weapons polished, bicorne hats cocked at stylish angles, they aren’t filthy and covered in blood and viscera as they should be from the battle that’s raging behind them.

Sébastien forces the officer to the ground. Straddling him, his grip tightens with lethal pressure. But the officer refuses to go so quickly. Foam bubbles from his mouth. His eyes growing red with bursting capillaries, his hands tear at his attacker’s face. Sharp fingernails rip open Sébastien’s cheeks only to seal themselves in seconds.

“Why…can’t…you…fucking…. _kill me properly?!”_ Sébastien howls.

The crack of his neck snapping finally reverberates in Sébastien’s ears. The officer's body twitches for a few seconds before it stills. Looking up to watch himself finally swinging from the tree branch, lifeless and with no hint of returning, a gleeful smile stretches across Sébastien’s face.

“Now that,” he jerks his head at his own corpse, “Is how to properly murder a desperate man, _enfoiré_.”

Except when he looks back down, it’s Nile’s sightless eyes staring back up at him. Her neck mottled with his fresh, finger-shaped bruises, a trickle of blood spills from her mouth.

 _“Merde!”_ Sébastien chokes on the curse. “Come on, _mademoiselle_ ,” he begs, the bile rising in his throat as he tries to shake her back to life, “Wake up!”

There’s no response.

Gently placing a hand to the side of her face, he recoils at how ice cold she feels to the touch. “Please wake up, Nile… _ma chérie_ …please…you must wake up,” he pleads in a ragged whisper.

Tears cloud his vision, his hands clammy and trembling. Dragging her into his arms, he rocks her back and forth. Except her head falls away at an all too unnatural angle he recognizes is impossible if she were alive.

“Nile!” he roars, refusing to give up. She’s too new, too young, too full of so much hope to be so cruelly snatched away from him.

“N-Nile,” he brokenly implores, cradling her head in his hand as he brings her to sit up against him where he’s still on his knees. Her arm slides down, limp along the ground.

“Come back to me, I beg of you, _mon Dieu_ …you…you c-cannot go,” he sobs. His ugly, desolate noises echo across the icy, blood-soaked battlefield. It’s empty now, nothing but him, his hung corpse and Nile lifeless in his grasp.

He’s killed her.

Sébastien’s screams tear apart the heavens.

* * *

Nile is wrenched from her sleep by noises of scratching and grunting whines coming from the living room. Seizing her gun from the nightstand, she silently exits her bedroom.

The hallway is pitch black while the living room blinds are closed. Yet there’s illumination coming from the room. Eyes straining, Nile sees that it’s because Booker’s fallen asleep with the television on. His cellphone is also on the floor, display screen side up. She can see in its light that he's slept in his clothes. 

The thing is, he’s shuddering from side to side on the couch. Twisting and tangled up in the blankets, a string of French in an accent she’s never heard out of him tumbles from his trembling lips.

Nile sets the gun to the kitchen counter before approaching. Shaking him doesn’t seem to be snapping him out of it. So she takes him by the wrist and does it even harder.

“Booker?” she implores, “C’mon, it’s me. Wake up.”

He rolls over, revealing bloodied arms from where he’s apparently scratched himself up in his flailing. The cuts have of course closed with no sign of their previous existence. But the blood remains. Moving her grip up to his shoulders and still shaking him, she looks down in rising alarm when he stiffens only to jolt upwards.

“Oh, _shit-”_

Nile doesn’t finish her thought due to suddenly finding the wind knocked out of her on account of being flung to the floor with Booker straddling her. That’s not the worst of it. No, that comes from the fact that his hands are securely wrapped around her throat. She's already starting to see little flashes of light in her vision due to the lack of oxygen he’s so efficiently cut off from her lungs.

His eyes are open but he’s still clearly in the throes of whatever hallucination has descended on him in his sleep. 

_Night terrors_ , Nile distantly muses. She witnessed them from other soldiers while enlisted. Psychological distress manifested itself in a multitude of ways. From self-harm all the way up to this reaction. It’s a terrifying prospect, being a prisoner of one’s own shattered memories and agonizing ordeals. He’s not to blame.

On the other hand, having her windpipe crushed isn’t ideal.

She’s glad her military training has been reinforced by the paces Andy, Joe and Nicky strenuously run her through. Sure, she’s tall and in excellent physical shape. But Booker's taller and outweighs her by quite a bit of muscle. He’s also trained to be just as deadly, if not more so from his significantly longer lifespan. Which explains how even in his state of twilight sleep, the dig of his fingers around her neck is proving deadlier with each passing second. If he were awake and applying this much pressure, he’d likely have snapped her neck by now.

She forces herself to battle back the adrenaline that threatens to overwhelm her. Wildly searching the room for an improvised weapon, at the same time, she sweeps the outside of his foot with her leg. It gives her enough leverage to knee him in the lower stomach. Unbalancing him and throwing off his momentum, she's able to twist to her side.

She spots the lamp sitting on the table less than a foot away from her. It will do.

Her fingers scramble for its cord. A few more tugs and it crashes to the floor. The noise wrenches him into rapidly blinking consciousness at the same time Nile snatches it in her hand and swings it with a strangled grunt. It catches him true, cracking him across the skull and sending him reeling off of her.

She doesn’t unhand the lamp until his eyes lose their savage appearance and they stop wildly darting around. Only then does she let it clatter to the floor from her hand. Closing her eyes, she drops back her head sluggishly flops down against the sofa.

“Guess I’ll be losing my deposit on the place,” she hoarsely tosses out.

She’s still coughing, clutching at her heaving chest and trying to get air into her lungs when Booker recognizes her again. Clambering into a sitting position across the floor from her, his face falls to stunned horror at the bloody bruises starting to fade on her neck. Between that, the wide, bleeding gash that’s split his skin open at the frontal lobe of his head and the destroyed lamp, it’s easy to piece together what he’s done.

“D-did I-”

“Try to choke me out?” she finishes, eyes watery with the effort to breathe again, “Yeah…nightmare, I think…I should hope? she shakily questions. Voice frayed and rough, there’s a wheeze to her words.

“Something like…like that,” he mumbles in a disoriented daze.

He hates how she instinctively flinches and scoots away when he reaches out to her. Above all because he has no one to blame himself. Snatching his hand back, he scrubs it down his face.

The minutes seem to tick by before she asks, “You…want to talk about-?”

“ _NON.”_

She looks over to see the blood is still in his hair and streaked across his arms despite that he’s healed up. Moving to her feet, she’s stopped by his heavy hand on her arm.

“Don’t,” he whimpers, wet eyes wide with pleading. “Don’t leave…I won’t…I didn’t mean to… _fuck,”_ he drops his head in his hands, "I...I'm sorry, Nile... _please..."_

She reaches out to carefully run a hand up and down his forearm. “I’m still here,” she murmurs, “Just need to get something to clean you up. Is that alright?”

He jerkily nods in affirmation.

Nile comes back with a warm, wet washcloth from the bathroom. Booker’s sitting on the couch now. Hunched over like he’s imploding on himself, he’s as still as death. She hands it to him, along with some paper towels from the kitchen.

His shuddering sigh is the only sound between them as he robotically rubs at his head and arms. He shoves everything back into her hands and Nile retreats to toss them in the kitchen trash bin. When she returns, he’s laid back down. Nonetheless, how he shifts and turns speaks of anything but relief.

She is thoroughly unwilling to see him go through another dreadful episode.

“C’mon Book,” Nile exhaustedly says, taking him by the elbow, “I’ve got you.” She’s grateful he stumbles to his feet rather than having to lift him. Guiding him towards the bedroom proves less effort than she expected.

He shuffles behind her without a word. Not until she pulls back the sheets and points to the bed does he directly acknowledge her. He shakes his head, voice cracking. “I’ll only hurt you again.”

“You always had the best goodnight’s sleep at the safehouses whenever there was someone else in the room,” Nile firmly reminds him. “All of us rarely slept alone.”

It was true; their safehouses usually relatively small, Nile generally found herself sharing a room with him or even tripling up with him and Andy while Joe and Nicky had their own. She would still sometimes have the nightmares of Quynh, as did Booker. But nothing ever as horrifying or disorienting as what she’s just witnessed from him.

“Get in bed,” she lightly propels him towards hers. ““I can take the couch,’ she nods at the wide sofa pushed up against the wall under the window.

His hand snakes out to grab her by the forearm. It’s with barely any pressure and easy for her to pull away from if she wants. “You don’t have to,” he blinks at the sofa, “It’s _your_ bed.”

She gives him a determined look. “Don’t want to make this awkward-”

“It is not.” It’s the surest he’s sounded since he woke up.

“Well alrighty then,” she waves at the bed again.

He starts unbuttoning his dress shirt and Nile looks away. Pretending to puff up the pillows, at the sudden silence, she glances back only to find him frozen. She’s about to ask him if everything’s alright again until he utters, “You don’t mind?” with a darting, anxious little wave at himself.

“No reason to sleep in those,” she nods in affirmation. Neither of them comment on how the sleeves are now bloodstained.

It’s a slow process, but he manages to strip down to his undershirt and boxers. Nile lets him get into bed first. He doesn’t test it or move around much. Only collapses onto the mattress to curl into himself on his left side.

Nile then slides into bed to his right and behind him. She takes care to leave ample space between them. On her back with her hands behind her head, she stares up at the ceiling fan whirring above. Its white noise will hopefully help him doze off. As she’s waiting for him to fall asleep to ensure he actually gets some in before morning hits in a few hours.

“Nile?”

“Yeah?”

She hears him take a handful of deep breaths before he brokenly whispers, “I don’t mind…you holding me.”

Nile pauses before replying with equal caution, “You’re sure?” He doesn’t roll over to face her or otherwise acknowledge she’s said anything. “Only if you want me to, Booker,” she reiterates.

He moves his arm back to take hers and wraps it around his middle. Nile says nothing about how his hand quakes. She’s also stiff until he scoots back to lie flush against her. Only when she’s sure he wants this does she relax at his back. She feels him immediately do the same, limbs going slack and head burrowing deeper into one of her fluffy pillows. Within minutes, his breathing evens out and he’s lightly snoring into where his head rests on her outstretched arm. 

Nile drifts off soon after, her hand stilling on his chest where his heart beats beneath her palm.

* * *

She awakes to an empty bed the next morning. Jolting upwards so fast that her silk sleeping scarf is yanked from her head, she scans the room. Booker’s nowhere to be found. Neither are his clothes.

Even as she hears the television from the living room, she doesn’t feel reassured until she physically finds him sitting on the couch. However, he’s listless, eyes glazed over and obviously not paying attention to the kid’s cartoon show blasting on the TV in front of him. His hands sit limply in his lap. His hair is a mess and he’s back in his ruined clothes from last night. Glancing at the kitchen behind him bears no evidence that he’s eaten. His flask sits on the arm of the sofa.

Nile showers and does her morning routine. She returns from her bathroom with an unopened toothbrush and clean towel. She purposely walks in front of him and blocking the view of the TV so that she doesn’t startle him.

“Hey Booker,” she tries to sound relaxed. He rolls his eyes up to her face, expression blank. “You should get cleaned up and change,” she sets the toothbrush and towel in his hands. “Plenty of hot water and I’m not driving out of town until this afternoon.” _At least he’s moving to his feet,_ she muses. “Take as long as you like.”

It's not hard to miss how Booker mostly refuses to look at her after he’s showered and changed. They awkwardly move around each other like ghosts as she packs away everything and hauls it to the car parked out front. Every time she thinks she feels his eyes on her, she’s not able to catch him looking at her when she spins on her heel to check on him. He’s so silent and withdrawn. Not a hint of the spark she’s come to know of him the previous times they’ve run into each other.

The trauma of his nightmares, of his loneliness isn’t hers to comprehend. She hasn’t come to know the same agonies in her young immortal years. Not yet. At the same time, she doesn’t brush off his reaction and how she came to be on the other end of his furious hands. It scared her, as it should.

Perhaps coffee would help.

It takes her three times of asking him if he wants to come with her to a little café around the corner before he responds. She needs more than his silent nod of acknowledgement. “Only if you want to go,” she quietly says. “Otherwise, you can stay in and I’ll bring you back whatever you’d like.”

Booker seems to see her or the first time. Nile looks significantly more casual than last night. A pair of jean cutoffs with a gauzy, billowy-sleeved, sunny yellow shirt tossed over them. Strappy gladiator sandals complete her ensemble. Her hair is pulled back off her face, the curly afro securely held back by a black headband.

“The fresh air might help,” she declares, nodding towards the door.

“Sure,” he’s barely able to get out in a mumble. Before she can check with him again, he’s marching over to the door and flinging it open. She shoots him a sideways look before following him and locking up behind herself.

The elevator ride down to the lobby brokers no conversation. Nile soon finds herself filling the uneasy silence on their walk with chatter of the local gossip. How a food shop they pass just opened and is in direct competition with the butcher across the street since they sell various meat and seafood along with their ready-to-order sandwiches. The salon up the road who did her hair for their heist last night. She points out the second-hand store to their right where she dumped off the clothes she flew in with to leave behind less of a trace of her presence.

He barely hears a word of it.

“After you,” Nile gestures at him, opening the door to the café. He doesn’t notice her worried expression as he lumbers inside in front of her.

Nile knows that Booker likes his coffee black and with a healthy dose of sugar. He doesn’t look to be in the mood for talking, so she orders for him. Only his barely perceptible nod of agreement signals he’s fine with it. She orders a flavored latte for herself. Paying and saying goodbye to the owner, Nile decides it might be better if they hang out by the seaside for a bit. The sunshine and picturesque shoreline could distract him from what happened last night.

Booker only shrugs in reply when she suggests they head to the pier.

The walk takes less than 10 minutes. They post up along the wooden railing facing the Atlantic Ocean. It’s a clear day. The sky’s a brilliant sapphire above them with only a scattering of clouds. Due to the expected triple-digit weather, the sidewalk behind them is beginning to crowd with people running errands before the noon-day high temperature hits. Clusters of beachgoers frolic on the sand below.

Nile doesn’t say a word as Booker hauls his flask out of a pocket of his jeans. He pores a healthy amount of the dark alcohol into his coffee before knocking back the flask for a long sip.

“You should have kicked me the fuck out last night,” he grouses, voice raw. He leans on the railing with slumped shoulders. “The minute I laid a hand on you,” he closes his eyes with a deep inhale, “You should have tossed me over the balcony.”

Her huff of laughter catches him off guard. A light sound the speaks of faith still unbroken. "Oh, if we didn’t burn that bridge when you throttled the shit out of me there’s no reason to set it alight now.” When he remains silent, she softly says, “You know when Quynh found the rest of us? Things weren’t…good.”

“No _shit,”_ Booker sniffs and takes a drink of his coffee. 

To say Quynh was unstable when she tracked him in Paris was the understatement of the century. The madness of drowning that never seemed to end would drive even the strongest among them to insanity. He admittedly expected it when she promptly killed him after she broke into his apartment. At his resuscitation, he found himself tied to a chair with an array of expertly secured knots. All the ways she used water to kill him via multiple means were creatively fucked up. The only way he got out of it was his utter refusal to sell out the others’ location. Funnily enough, it only took her a couple of weeks to realize he wasn’t going to break. Not considering the reasons why he was alone when she found him. Apparently, that netted him her twisted sort of respect.

His water bill for that month was fucking astronomical.

“She killed me, Joe and Nicky a few times back when she first popped up,” Nile candidly says before sipping her coffee. "Sometimes accidentally. Sometimes...not."

Her other elbow rests on the rail next to him and she’s leaning with her back on it. It makes it look like she’s nonchalantly people watching when she’s actually assessing anyone who passes by. The military called it situational awareness. For them, vigilance is a side-effect of the need to blend in as much as possible on due to their immortal state. 

“Nicky got it the worst when she just walked into the bathroom and knocked over the fan into his bath,” Nile groans. “It blew all the fuses. That entire side of that safehouse in Manila _still_ doesn’t have a lick of electricity.”

Booker’s nose twitches in amusement despite his best efforts. “Fucking seriously?” he snorts

Nile claps a hand over her heart. “Scouts honor, it’s true. Joe came extremely close to poisoning her with something slow working and as agonizing as possible in retaliation…let's just say I wasn’t exactly the one to stop him from doing it."

"Let me guess," Booker rolls his eyes, "Nicky wrangled in Joe?"

Nile gulps down half her coffee in one go. "Duh," she shrugs, "But only because he's the one that followed through with it."

Booker's laugh is caustic, ringing in her ears. "Now see, _that's_ the Nicolò I know. There's a reason why the word 'vendetta' is the literal Italian translation for 'vengeance.'"

"I sure as shit found that out that day," Nile swallows. "Nicky just... _sat there,_ all serene and silently reading in the corner while she withered away less than arm’s length from him. It took her a while to come back too. When she did, he shrugged, looked her right in the eye and uttered, “ _Ora, non lo farai più, vero?”_ before wandering away.”

"Sounds 'bout right on the money for him," Booker retorts.  
  
Nile mindlessly swirls her coffee, shaking her head at the memory of it. “Then again, she's never slipped up and committed manslaughter, involuntary or otherwise, against him ever again."

Booker frowns and drinks down more of his spiked coffee. He’s added too much liquor, giving it a bitter tinge. It feels appropriate, considering his current disposition. 

“Andy’s still-”

“Alive?” Nile finishes his thought, “Yep. Somehow, Quynh never put her in direct danger. We think it’s a subconscious protective thing. Meanwhile, Joe has a new hatred of ice. But that’s a story for another time, amirite?”

It’s a joke, obviously. Regardless, his mind scrambles, thoughts chaotic and unwilling to accept her attempts to lighten the mood.

"It’s not your job to fix me, Nile."

She doesn’t say anything for a long while. He thinks she’s going to let it go until she, well, doesn’t.

"You're a grown man, last I checked. Very much so and then some,” she tosses back. Looking him up and down in her usual calculation, she intones, “Only you can decide if you want fixing, then proceed to actually do it and _then_ make the amends people need from you. I’ll simply be here whenever you do. _"_

"Well, when you put it that way…" he trails off. Taking a long drag from his flask, he goes back to overlooking the beach.

He feels her bump her shoulder against his. It causes him to look over and take in how the sun beats down on her. It seems to illuminate her from within in its golden light. The warm yellow of her shirt in striking contrast to her rich, bronzed skin calls to mind images of the goddess Oshun he'd seen in various murals the last time he was in Nigeria. Like the deity, Nile sees through him like glass, passion and purity emanating from her in waves. Not ever pity. No, never that.

He wonders if she realizes how easily she holds his heart in her hands. Except he refuses to burden her with admitting that aloud. It's a soiled gift he’s not worthy to grant her. Last night proved that all too well.

“I’m also here to listen,” she seriously says. “Anything, whatever you want to say, talk about. I don’t have to go anywhere.”

“You shouldn’t abandon your family,” he harshly snaps out before taking another gulp from his coffee.

“Since when aren't you part of that?” she indignantly retorts. “Exile or not, it doesn’t mean excommunication.” She looks down at her feet for a quick moment before insisting, “Nothing ever will. Not from me. Not from everyone else, either.”

He closes his eyes and wipes a hand down his face. “I am aware of that,” he mutters.

“By the way, it's not okay to hate yourself either. Are you aware of _that?"_ she demands. "Don't try to blame it on your exile," she cuts him off as he opens his mouth with the usual worthless excuse. "You were like this before all that. Even I could tell."

He looks up to see her eyes burning into him. Yet her expression is so open, waiting for him to try to be fucking honest. Instead, he shoots himself in the foot again.

 _Quelle_ surprise.

"Astonished you noticed," he retorts with a mirthless chuckle. Deflection has always been his tactic.

"I have always _seen_ you, Sébastien."

He flinches at how his real name so easily falls from her lips. It's the first time he's heard it on her tongue. A whisper on the wind, she says it so quietly.

He still doesn't have an answer, left to pathetically shrug. She throws back her head and lets out a dull noise of disbelief. Her deliberate step away from him is like a punch to his gut.

"When are you going to decide you're worthy of your existence? Of being loved?” she wipes at her eyes.

He can’t muster up any words for her.

At his silence, she shakes her head a few times, as though to clear it. “Look, you know how to find me, Booker.” The deep exhale she lets out wavers as she gently clasps her hand around where his rests on the railing. “My lines are always open,” she pledges.

Booker doesn’t believe in miracles. Even before he died the first time, they were useless. All mostly the result of an uneducated population crippled by tyrannical religious faith that was abused to prop up shitty kings and country. As far as he is concerned, miracles are simply events that science has yet to decode. His and the others’ immortality are included in that outlook. It’s why he thought Merrick would be the answer to a solution for his woes.

Closing his eyes, Booker drinks more, nearly to the bottom of the flask. Anything to dull the wretched ache. He doesn’t deserve her. Just like she doesn’t deserve to be dragged down by the shell he’s been for so god-damn long. Shedding centuries’ worth of loathing doesn’t just go away after a few decades.

 _But you love her,_ his brain rebels against him.

 _You tried to murder her,_ the hateful part of him jeers right back. _Which is why you cannot have her, tête de noeud._ _The faster you drop the depth charge, the less it will hurt her,_ he lies to himself.

“You’re too young to know any damn better,” he finally says with a sharp jerk of his head. He doesn’t even have the guts to look at her as he says it. Eyes narrowing at the seascape in front of him, he’s barely able to gurgle out, “And that’s what you’ll always be, Nile.”

The wave of her anger hits him like a scorching blast. He distantly recalls that it’s quite similar to being caught in a landmine. One of the newer ones, too. The sorts that are chilling in their efficient ability to turn everything within a few yards to nothing but charred ash and dust. Except he’s not going to speedily mend himself back together after this one. And just like triggering a mine, he’s brought this all on himself 

“I'm a fucking _adult,_ Booker," she hisses, "Start treating me like one."

"You're a kid-"

She spins on him and starts vehemently poking him in the chest. Her finger is like a brand wherever it lands. "Before you, any of you came along, I was a god-damned Marine. I tracked terrorists. I led operations. I was fluent in two languages and three-quarters of the way there in a third one. I have fucking _killed_ people.”

He tries to drop his hands to her shoulders to calm her. She easily shoves them off.

“Hell, even before all of that?” she exclaims, “I helped raise my brother after dad died. Woke him up, packed his lunches, helped him with his homework, his extracurriculars. A second mother to him. All while our own mama worked her ass off to keep us safe and loved.”

“You can’t possibly underst-"

She smacks his hand away where it falls to her side. He barely registers the physical sting. It’s her wholesale rejection of his touch that cleaves him apart.

“You think I don’t miss the hell out of what’s left of my own family?” she tersely retorts. “You think I enjoy the nightmares, the longing, how I’d bargain away my own immortality in a heartbeat to see them all one last time? You wanna say all of that just passed me right on by? Because I’m _young?_ They think _I’m fucking dead_ , Booker. A gravestone in Arlington National is all they have left of me. The fact that I’m still wandering around out here in the world means I’m lying to them every fucking day of my existence.”

He’s shaking his head in disagreement. “Not the same-”

“At least you got to say _your_ final goodbyes,” she snarls. “Not a single one of the rest of us was granted any of that. Remember,” she warns, “You’re not the only one suffering from the ghosts of your old life. So stop calling me ‘kid.’ I am no one's child but my mom and dad’s,” Nile relentlessly continues. “Neither you nor anyone else has a right to me in that way!”

“Yet you sure are all too willing to let the others dote on you,” he sneers. It’s purposefully mean, dripping with spite. Good. All the better to drive her away.

Her mouth hangs open in shock before the simmering wrath causes her voice to drop to dangerous and low.

“The _fuck_ you on, Book?”

“I just don’t see you complaining when Andy lets you get away with shit you know she’d never allow the rest of us on account of you being so new. Or the way Joe’s always chatting in your ear for missions that the rest of us can undertake blind, solo and with one arm tied behind our backs. How about Nicky?” he bites, “Always coddling you whenever you fuck up. Constantly there with his sweet words, open arms and sad little looks of pity.”

He empties the flask and stuffs it back into his pocket. Judging by her seething silence, it’s high time he serves up a goal into the proverbial net.

_She never wanted you before. You fucking think she wants you like this now? After you nearly fucking killed her with your bloodied hands? You’re better off alone, an island of misery in a sea of shit._

His smile is vicious and devoid of any humor. “But hey, _madame royale,_ you’re just that fucking _mature_ , right Nile? _”_

The crack of her slap sends his head reeling and actually loosens a tooth. He’s lucky the angle of her palm didn’t break his nose.

“Get _fucked,_ Booker.”

She turns on her heel and marches off into the crowd. By the time he looks up, she's gone.

He doesn't see her again for nearly three decades. Even then, it's Quynh who calls him back to his family.

Fuck the fucking nearly half century he has to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Notes and Translations:**
> 
> _“Pour l'amour de Dieu”_ – “For God’s sake” in French. 
> 
> _“D’accord, mademoiselle”_ – “Okay, miss” in French.
> 
>  _“numéro deux”_ \- “Number two" in French.
> 
>  _”Bonne nuit_ ” – “Good night” in French.
> 
>  _“Que Dieu ait pitié de votre âme”_ – “May God have mercy on your soul” in French.
> 
>  _“enfoiré”_ \- “You fuck” in French.
> 
>  _“NON”_ \- “NO” in French.
> 
>  _“Ora, non lo farai più, vero?”_ \- "Now, you will not do it again, yes?" in Italian.
> 
>  _“tête de noeud”_ – Basically “dickhead” in French. 
> 
> _“madame royale”_ – “royal lady” in French. It was an old title for the eldest living, unmarried daughter of the reigning French monarch. During the French Revolution, it became a scornful term for female members of monarchy in general and pretty much still is so. 
> 
> KiKi Layne can rock a red-carpet look. This is my idea of her dress at the gala. Yes, it’s actually designed by Atelier Versace, https://i.pinimg.com/originals/f5/de/c3/f5dec3677568099d2626cf218ed6cf5d.jpg 
> 
> Matthias Schoenaerts is no slouch either. Suit by Louis Vuitton, https://img.movienco.co.uk/img/59700/59787_en-la-72-edicion-del-festival-de-venecia.jpg
> 
> In the meantime, I’ve had the soundtrack to this movie on repeat and of my favorite songs is _Silence_ by Marshmello ft. Khalid. It’s the song that plays while the rest of the team is determining the punishment for Booker’s betrayal and he’s drinking out on the patio alone until Nile comes to check on him. 
> 
> Listening to it so much, it just occurred to me that it’s basically Booker’s theme song. The upbeat rhythm of the song hides some pretty haunting lyrics:
> 
> _Yeah, I'd rather be a lover than a fighter  
>  'Cause all my life, I've been fighting  
> Never felt a feeling of comfort  
> All this time, I've been hiding  
> And I never had someone to call my own  
> I'm so used to sharing  
> Love only left me alone  
> But I'm at one with the silence_
> 
> _I found peace in your violence  
>  Can't tell me there's no point in trying  
> I'm at one, and I've been quiet for too long  
> I found peace in your violence  
> Can't tell me there's no point in trying  
> I'm at one, and I've been silent for too long_
> 
> _I've been quiet for too long  
>  I've been quiet for too long  
> I found peace in your violence  
> Can't tell me there's no point in trying  
> I'm at one, and I've been quiet for too long_
> 
> _I'm in need of a savior, but I'm not asking for favors  
>  My whole life, I've felt like a burden  
> I think too much, and I hate it  
> I'm so used to being in the wrong, I'm tired of caring  
> Loving never gave me a home, so I'll sit here in the silence_
> 
> _I found peace in your violence  
>  Can't tell me there's no point in trying  
> I'm at one, and I've been quiet for too long  
> I found peace in your violence  
> Can't tell me there's no point in trying  
> I'm at one, and I've been silent for too long_
> 
> _I've been quiet for too long  
>  I've been quiet for too long  
> I found peace in your violence  
> Can't tell me there's no point in trying  
> I'm at one, and I've been quiet for too long_


	4. Baku, Azerbaijan

**Baku, Azerbaijan**

“Her time nears.”

Quynh’s voice over the hologram call is as serene as he’s ever heard it. Yet her face bears a jagged aura of pain that he’s all too familiar with when it comes to losing the mortals among them. Even then, he knows he cannot begin to comprehend how it feels when there are thousands of years of history between one and their beloved. Even with a half-millennium of interruption.

He admittedly flinched when she popped up on the screen. What, with all the repetitive murdering she did of him when they initially met. If not for Nile mentioning how she's come into the family fold all those years ago, he'd assume he was being set up.

Hell, he could possibly very well be.

“Tell me where.”

“I have already sent it to you via the standard digital means.”

“I’ll be there-”

“You had better be, Sébastien.”

The call abruptly ends.

It takes him half a day to find a private flight to her coordinates. He drinks himself to sleep on the way there.

* * *

None of them initially knew if Andy’s mortality would result in her rapidly deteriorating or if it would be slower due to whatever cursed blessing kept her alive for so long.

It's slower. Significantly so. Nonetheless, it’s not long enough for her to last to the end of Booker's exile. So he finds himself sitting at her bedside in a new, cottage style safehouse he’s never been to before and located off the coast of the Caspian Sea in Azerbaijan. He knows he's made the right choice. Let the others kill him a hundred times over for violating the terms of his punishment for this reason. He gives no fucks.

(Fine, they may end him a few times. But they’d never murder him beyond, say, a baker’s dozen. That’d just be “super extra” as Nile would say)

Also, _technically_ Quynh wasn’t around to pass judgment and determine his punishment for the Merrick betrayal. So there are no rules against her contacting him.

"Nile told you to come?" Andy’s question interrupts his thoughts.

Her voice is strong and steady. Despite her unusually thin frame and the sound of her bones cracking with her movements. Along with how her face is wrinkled, her skin the palest he’s ever seen it. Yet she sits up against the dark wooden headboard of her sleigh style bed relatively easily.

She also looks to be only in her 80s or so. It’s a solid achievement for someone whose bodily age since her mortality set in is decades past a century. She moves significantly slower but is not otherwise unimpaired. Her icy blue eyes remain sharp, constantly scanning and never missing a detail. She’s also mentally clear as a bell. Her speech flows easily, as deliberate as ever.

She’s aged beautifully and with profound grace. More than anything else of his exile, Booker regrets he wasn't there with her to witness her hard-earned passage through time.

He silently confirms Andy's question from where he sits in the chair by her bed. In her email, Quynh refused to conceal from him how Nile asked her to directly contact him rather than doing it herself. He doesn't blame the newest of them, considering their last rocky interaction. No reason to tell Andy that. Especially since she's technically correct.

Andy's laugh is the most sincere he's heard it in decades at his affirmation of her suspicions. “The kid can never be accused of being heartless," she replies.

"Yeah, boss. It's utterly beyond her," Booker mutters while glancing away. “The rest of us should be so lucky to have her.”

Andy tilts her head at him in appraisal. The swoop of her steel grey hair rustles in the silence of the room as her piercing gaze sweeps over him. Booker freezes only to watch in confusion when she abruptly leans over to dig around in the drawer of the nightstand next to the bed. Pulling out her wallet and taking out five hundred euros worth of cash from it, she sets it under the lamp on the nightstand.

He arches a brow. "What's that for?"

"Nicky was right about you and Nile,” she beams, “I always pay my debts."

"What do you-?"

She leans forward and drops a worn hand on where he rests his in his lap. Her voice is resolute, brokering no room for argument as she proclaims, "You're in love with Nile, _mудак.”_ He shakes his head, not understanding her Russian. “It means dumbass, _dumbass,”_ she throws her free hand up in disbelief.

 _"Taisez-vous_ , _”_ he snorts with unconvincing severity.

Andy’s razor-sharp smirk certainly hasn’t changed over the years. Nor how hard she smacks his forearm.

“ _C’mon,_ boss!” he exclaims, wincing and rubbing at the smarting skin there. Of course, the redness fades back to pale in under a minute.

“I suspected it from the first time you met her after I brought her to the safehouse at Goussainville!” she gleefully says while pointing accusingly at him. “You hip checked Nicky out of the way just to sit next to her. You couldn’t even manage to keep your damn eyes to yourself.”

He snorts and warily glances away. “How come you didn’t say a single damn word about it?” 

She shakes her head to the contrary. “That’s a path only you could travel. Plus, Nile was roughly only 12 hours into her immortality. She didn’t need to be any more overwhelmed. You know what it’s like when you’re a fresh one. Bridges shouldn’t be built on shitty, compromised foundations.”

“Oh, I think I torched that bridge to her well enough on my own,” he mutters.

“What’s this then?” Andy’s voice rises with concern at how he drops his head into his hand. “Booker?” she tartly questions, “What _exactly_ did you do?”

He lets out a wrecked groan. Leaning back in his chair, he presses his palms to his eyes before he can look at her again. Haltingly relaying what happened between him and Nile in Dakar and how they parted ways, he’s twitchy in his seat by the time he gets to the end of it.

Now it’s Andy’s turn to let out a drained groan. Scooting forward, she cradles his scruffy cheek with a sturdy hand. “You can’t keep destroying yourself like this, _d’accord?”_ she doggedly says, _“_ It doesn’t net you or anyone else any sort of good. _”_

He’s sniffling while adamantly shaking his head in agreement. “I know that now, boss. Trust me,” he wipes away his tears, “The therapy’s worked wonders in gradually getting me to there,” he faintly smiles.

“It pleases me that you’re actively working on it,” she strokes his cheek “To let it all keep tormenting you? It is thoroughly unsustainable, Booker.” Withdrawing, she proceeds to fix him with a jaundiced look. “You’re also lucky I wasn’t there to tell you off, though Nile clearly didn’t need me to be,” she proudly declares. “Hell, don’t get it twisted, young man. I can still take you now.”

Booker’s stuttered chuckle is quickly followed by his gaze darting around the room. He has no doubt there are roughly a dozen or so weapons hidden in various places. Likely half of them are within arm’s reach of her. It’s why he’s not surprised at the sound of a couple of metallic clinks when she reaches under her pillow to reveal a flask stashed there.

"Don't you dare look at me like that," she narrows her eyes in warning before she takes a long gulp. "You and I both know I had no plans of stopping. Millennia-old habits die hard," she offers it to him.

Knocking back a shot's worth, Booker winces at the strength of the vodka. Passing it back, he sniffs, "Fine. Nicky knows about my…feelings for Nile. That's a given. What about uh, Joe?"

"He was right too but wasn’t in the mood to bet on it.” At Booker’s dazed expression, that familiar, perceptive smile comes to her face. “He thinks she could do better... _way_ better."

"He tell Nile that?"

"Yep. And paid for it with a few lost teeth when she punched him in the mouth.”

Booker can’t deny how his heart warms at that image of Nile defending him. Even as he also winces for Joe’s sake.

“Thing is,” Andy nonchalantly continues, “No one told Nile he was actually being a jokey little shit. She didn’t talk to him for a month afterward. Frosty as fuck," she lets out a low whistle of appreciation. “Anyway, Quynh thinks it’s cute, if a bit saccharine. Then again, she’s always had a thing for scoundrels,” she grins.

Booker can’t suppress a snicker. He takes her hand in his and starts running his thumb along her knuckles. “That certainly explains the likes of you two.”

Andy’s expression shifts and she lets out a deep sigh. “I’m sorry Quynh killed you so many times after she tracked you down in Paris,” her eyes solemnly meet his. “It was horrifying, to say the absolute very least.”

Booker shudders before collecting himself. “What she went through is monstrous,” he carefully squeezes Andy’s hand. “ _No one_ would come back from that in any way normal. She just…” he trails off. “I uh, think…I think she was just so desperate to see you, see the rest of you. Look at me,” he gestures at himself, “I know how misery can cloud the paved road of good intentions to hell.”

Andy looks at how Booker’s slumped in his chair. All with that thousand-yard stare from him that’s always unnerved her since they first found him. His hand is suddenly limp over hers as well.

“Come on in, Book,” she pats the space on the bed next to her. At his anxious expression, she grins. “I’m old as shit, remember? Apparently, a side effect of this whole aging thing is easily getting cold all the time,” she waves at the brightly colored knitted blanket tossed over her shoulders. “You’ve always run warm, so cut an old lady a break, will you? Get your ass over here.”

It’s impossible to keep the smile from his face as Booker gets up from his chair and slides into bed next to her. Andy snuggles into his side as he carefully throws an arm around her shoulders. Winding her own around his middle lets her rest her cheek on his chest. Closing his eyes, he allows his head to fall back against the headboard. He can’t help but revel in the feel of her being so near. They were never supposed to see each other again. Yet she’s allowed him this final privilege. He’ll take as much of it as she affords him.

_I won’t see you again._

_Have a little faith, Book._

They talk for hours about anything and everything. Catching up on where he’s been, where the rest of their family has found themselves. Booker’s in no way shocked at how Andy’s had the Copleys keeping tabs on him throughout his exile and directly relaying it to her. They’re on their third one now, Original Copley’s great-grandson. He’s a kid even to Nile, being just barely out of university.

“He’s got quite the crush on her, you know,” Andy teases. At how Booker stiffens, her bawdy laughter echoes around them. “Don’t worry,” she slaps his knee as he lets out a string of curses in his native language, “Nile finds it amusing more than anything else.”

He jokingly swats at Andy’s hand when she laughs even more at his audible sigh of relief.

Andy shifts her head to get more comfortable against him. “She tries to not hurt his feelings when he falls all over himself to have her so well prepped on her assignments. Plus, I think Joe must have threatened the shit out of him at some point. Poor kid can barely look him in the eye.”

 _"Merde,”_ Booker knowingly smirks, “Sounds like you’re all going to be on Copley the Fourth real soon.”

“I’m sure it doesn’t help that the kid has eyes for Nicky too, the greedy little bastard.”

Booker’s snorted chortle has him hugging her closer as they continue. It’s almost like old times.

Without warning, there’s a chime on Andy’s cell where it sits on the nightstand. She snatches it up and swipes open the screen. Her expression slides to serious. “Head’s up,” she shows him the text, “Nile says they’ll be back here in about an hour.”

 _Time’s_ up, Booker muses. _One final gift granted._

He wraps his arms around her to clasp her into a crushing hug. She doesn’t mind it in the slightest. Not as they both close their eyes in each other’s tight embrace before he drags himself out of bed. 

“Hey, Book?” Andy calls out when he reaches the door.

He spins around to find her staring at him with uncanny intensity and watery eyes. He mirrors her, wiping at his cheeks before he clears his throat.

“Yeah, boss?”

“Nile might be the newest of us, but she’s in no way a child,” Andy resolutely proclaims. “Not even when we first met her. Best you remember that for your own sake."

Crossing the room in a few determined strides, he tenderly cards his hand through her hair for a moment before leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead.

“I won’t make that mistake again, boss.”

“You rarely fuck things up twice,” she insists, “Stick to that pattern.” Withdrawing, her fingers swipe away his tears that have begun to fall again. “Everyone deserves an end to their suffering,” she asserts, “That includes you, _mon amour.”_

Closing his eyes, he leans into her touch. _“Adieu,_ Andromache.”

 _“Prends soin de toi,_ Sébastien."

It is the last time he sees her alive.

* * *

Nile has the taxi driver drop her roughly a mile or so from the Maiden’s Tower a few days later. The walk allows her to check if anyone’s tailing her. They’re not.

She still can’t fathom why she agreed to meet up with him. He should be grateful that she even bothered to text Andy when she, Joe and Nicky were due back to the cottage.

 _Meet me at the Maiden Tower? See you soon_ followed by the time in the late afternoon.

Her irritation fizzles along her skin, mind whirling with exasperation. She’s indignant at his nerve to be so casual in the text. Not even the presumption she’d say no. Honestly, she nearly sent back a rude-ass gif telling him to fuck off for his troubles.

Except she’s here now. 

The Old City section of Baku contains most of the historical landmarks. Many of them have been designated UNESCO Heritage Sites. The Maiden Tower overlooks the city’s bay since it was originally intended as a watchtower. Built on the northwest edge of the Palace of The Shirvanshahs on the Absheron Peninsula, it dates back to the 12th century. Which makes it newer than Joe and Nicky. The two of them had a hearty laugh over that fun little fact when the three of them strolled past it a few days ago.

Nile squints at where Booker stands with his back to her about a hundred feet down the hill overlooking the tower. He obviously hasn’t clocked her yet. “Hi, Booker,” she hisses to herself as she strolls down. “Bye, Booker,” she snarks. “Please go fuck yourself, _Booker.”_

No, this isn’t about her and she needs to stop being so damn petty (she hears all of that in her mother’s voice at the back of her thoughts, may she rest in peace). There are far more important issues to deal with at present.

Nile freezes, hand blindly reaching out to the rough stone brick of the Maiden’s Tower to her right. She slouches against it, head dropping to take in the scrubby tufts of grass at her feet. Her throat tightens with unspent tears. Skin inexplicably clammy, she flexes her fingers before wringing her hands together. Her heartbeat seems to roar in her ears.

No one could ever replace her mama. Nevertheless, there’s no denying she will miss Andy like she does a mother.

She ducks out of Booker’s potential sight to shuffle around the tower’s circular wall. Thankfully, there’s an observation bench that faces the bay on the opposite side of the wall from him. She’s grateful that barely anyone else is around to see her collapse onto it. Dropping her head in her hands and shoulder’s shaking, her cries are muffled into the sleeves of her coat.

She has no idea how much time has passed until she finally manages to wipe at her eyes with the back of her hand. Blowing her nose from the packet of tissues she’s been carrying around since they’ve all arrived in Baku, she realizes she’s gone through roughly a packet a day at this point. Taking a few ragged breaths and looking up at the bright sky overhead helps a tick. Plucking up a bunch of wildflower weeds at her feet even allows her to focus on a different task before she’s able to start walking again.

Booker spins around at hearing footsteps crunching on the blend of dirt and gravel behind him. Nile doesn’t miss the way his hand falls from his back. Most likely it’s where he keeps his gun. She doesn’t blame him, considering how all the rest of them walk around with their own personal mini arsenal of weapons. Lord knows she’s got a hell of a lot on her right now too.

He looks the same, that’s to be expected. His hair is longer again, judging by how blond strands of it escape from the dark knit cap he’s got pulled down over his ears. His beard is fuller too. He’s dressed in layers on account of the crisp Autumn weather. The camel colored long coat with a fur collar and netting accents along the sides appears nice and warm. It tops off a heather grey cardigan, white t-shirt and black jeans. A lightly knit tan and black patterned scarf draped around his neck completes the look.

Normally, she’d tease him about his usual, slightly eccentric Euro esthetic. But considering how they last left each other? She’s most definitely not in the mood. Joe was right, she’s capable of bearing grudges nearly as hard as he does if she’s crossed for no good reason. 

Booker clumsily drops his slightly outstretched arms when she makes no effort to move forward into a hug. She instead remains leaning back against the wall of the Maiden Tower. Her hands stuffed into the pockets of her burgundy caplet coat, one of her boot-clad feet is propped up against the stone brick.

Nile rolls her eyes. “You owe me cab money for the trip, by the way,” she shoves a hand at him.

Booker arches a brow. _“Seriously-?”_

“Do I look like I’m not?” she cuts him off, waving her fingers at him. “That’ll be 10 _manat.”_

Booker’s mouth opens and closes a few times before he snaps it shut. She huffs in reply, expression hardening. Searching his jean pockets for his wallet, he digs around in it before he drops the coins into her palm.

It’s times like these she hates how they can’t use cash apps to pay for things like normal fucking people. Sure, the fear of being tracked is real. Still doesn't make it any less annoying. While the others wouldn’t get it, Booker's tech-savvy ass could likely handle it.

“You _would_ be out of actual paper bills,” she grouses. Jesus Christ on high, only Booker could make the existence of coinage a passive-aggressive act.

As she stuffs the coins into her coat pocket, Booker gives her a once-over. Her coat is tossed over a pleated black shirt dress, patterned black tights and flat black riding boots with shiny gold buckles. The camel colored, Burberry patterned shawl scarf artfully tied around her neck tops everything off. Her blond ombre, kinky curly twists are tied up into a thick bun. She looks like a moneyed tourist on holiday. Blending in with the wealthy types who come to the warmer coast of the Caspian once summer is over ensures that she goes unnoticed.

Not that he’d ever miss her in a crowd. She’s distractedly lovely today.

“You know I’m not supposed to be here,” Booker finally mutters.

Nile carelessly shrugs. “Andy wouldn’t be so cruel to deny you this.”

Her voice is so impassive, he suppresses a flinch. "So she's the one who wanted me here?" he quietly replies. “You didn’t make the call.” There’s no accusation. Simply a statement of fact.

“Yet you’re here, aren’t you?” she tersely retorts,

_“Oui-”_

“Well then,” she waves around them with dispassionate observation, “Here you are.”

Nile really doesn’t give a fuck about the awkward silence that settles between them again. Let it be heavy and oppressive, drowning her with its unease. Because that means she would have to care about his feelings. She damn well knows better. He showed his true colors back in Dakar. “Fool me once” and all that noise. Yep, she could give two shits about all of that when it comes to him.

Right.

Right?

 _Fucking hell_.

“Nile?”

“Yes?”

Her voice is filled with unyielding determination. Combined with the way she gives him a critical once over that threatens to light him on fire through sheer force of will, she brokers no room for nonsense.

Booker finds his voice again. “I asked to meet up because I wanted to let you know that…well, I’m a fuck up and I’ll try not to do it again…” he trails off.

Her snort of reply is loud and clear as she continues pulling apart the weedy wildflowers in between her fingertips. Tossing bits of them away one by one, she flatly says, “Feel free to continue.”

He nods in agreement. “What I did to you…especially what I _said_ to you last time we saw each other? It was incredibly offensive and I had no right to be so callous. Nor make you feel so trivial and exposed.”

"Yep," she pops the “P” at the end for emphasis, "Yes it _was._ And yeah, you had absolutely no right to do that. _"_

While he’s not looking directly at her, his eyes flit back and forth to where she’s leaning up against the wall behind the both of them. They’ve ended up standing side by side. He deliberately moves in front of her so that he has her full attention. Taking in her vague expression before he plunges on, he won’t let himself half-ass this. Not this time.

“I am sorry for it,” he steadily continues. “I should never have taken out my demons on you,” he lets out a sigh.

Her dark eyes finally seem to see him as she looks up. It's like being under a microscope. His only salvation is how her expression slightly softens. Still, she orders, "Go on."

Rolling his shoulders, he clears his throat. “It hurt you. And I never want to do that to you again. I…I will do everything in my power to not repeat it. Hopefully, I can earn another chance from you?”

Her silence is nearly unbearable as she glances down to scuff at the loose earth with the toe of her boot. Yet he knows it’s her prerogative to respond however she wishes.

Nile hates the way her hearts beating so fast in her chest. Because the apology is actually _good_. Like, follows the five-step process good. He started off with a promise to try not to do it again, apologized, admitted to his wrong doing, pointed out how he should have reacted instead and then offered to fix it.

She’s still angry though. Looking somewhere over his shoulder instead of directly at him, she grits her teeth. “You made me feel so fucking _small_ , Booker,” she sniffs and crosses her arms. “It cut me to the bone.” Gaze snapping to his she hisses, “I’ve been through enough in my life, even before this whole immortality thing, to never allow _anyone_ to have that kind of power over me like that.”

Booker swallows. “You were vulnerable and I took advantage like the flaming asshole I was.” His hand goes to his chin, rubbing at his jaw as he remembers the impact of her slap.

“Was?” she retorts.

Booker wanders to stand next to her again and bumps his arm to hers. She’s stiff but doesn’t jerk away. “The therapy hopefully helped,” he softly confesses, staring out at the sea in front of them. “Can’t forget that with trying to make amends.”

She startles at what he’s revealed. Glancing over, he's struggling to remain still next to her. “For real?” she starts to grin before she can stop herself.

“Of course, I can’t tell the whole truth session to session,” he exhales. “Still, you’d be surprised how much I can get away with when laying out the facts of what’s brought me to how I am. How I operate. How it’s up to me to admit to needing help to stop repeating old patterns.”

“We’re all victims of our own worst ideas of ourselves,” she mutters. “You aren’t the only one. Not by a long shot.” 

“Don’t I know it.” 

She squares her shoulders with a sharp inhale before dusting off her coat. “Thank you for the apology,” she says, refusing to allow her voice to sound anything but unwavering.

He looks over at her, taking in how she’s still not looking at him. “You’re still pissed,” he delicately replies. 

“No _shit_.”

“I get it.”

“I appreciate that you do.”

_“C'est bon.”_

“Hmm.”

Nile clears her throat after some time. “So,” she distantly begins, “What pushed to start talking to someone about everything?”

It’s impossible for her to observe the way his gaze lingers on her since she naturally keeps assessing the passing crowds for any immanent threats. “Isn't it obvious?” he rumbles. She shakes her head, waiting for clarification. “For my family,” he reverently says, “Both the old and new.”

When she finally glances over, she's taken aback by how he so intently seems to _see_ her. “That's good to hear, Book,” she breathes out, “It was your time, you know? To get your shit together.”

_“Oui.”_

They still stand there, eying what appear to be mostly tourists wandering around. There’s even a couple of obvious groups being led by loud hosts who hold up closed umbrellas with the names of the group to ensure no one gets lost.

“How’s Andy doing?” Booker tentatively asks.

Nile’s chest rises and falls as she struggles for the words to describe how they’re all basically on a constant vigil. “She’s still with us,” she finally replies, “But, um, Quynh doesn’t think it will be for long.”

Booker rapidly blinks before he roughly replies, “I’m grateful she allowed me my goodbye’s in person.”

Nile finds herself slipping her hand into his where his fingers have been brushing up against hers at his side. “Me too, Booker.”

He grips her like he’s afraid she’ll disappear. They remain like that until the sun sets.

“You’ll let me know when she’s gone?” he implores when Nile tells him she should get going.

“Of course,” she swiftly replies. “She wants her ashes scattered here,” she struggles to get out, “So we all don’t plan on going anywhere anytime soon.”

Booker gives her a watery smile. “I’ve got no plans either.”

Nile hums, “Guess I’ll see you around here again then.”

There’s no reason for him to contradict her. Not when they all wait for the inevitable end of an age.

* * *

Andy can’t remember where she was born. It’s to be expected for being of the ancient times. Her earliest and happiest memories recollect what is now called the Caspian Sea and its golden shores.

“Scatter me in the sea,” she decisively tells Quynh as they lie next to each other under the late morning sun on its beach.

The sand is pristine in front of the cottage some yards behind them. The sound of the waves lapping at their feet create a pleasant buzz in time with calls of the gulls circling overhead. They are also safe from prying eyes on account of the private beachfront property that Copley the Third rushed to purchase with a well-hidden shell company.

“You remember the rites of the dead?” Andy strokes the tumble of Quynh’s dark tresses. She enjoys the way the other woman leans into it. “I fear they seem to have fallen out of even my oldest memories.”

Quynh smiles against her cheek before capturing her lover’s mouth in a tender kiss. “I recall them unusually well,” she promises.

Andromache the Scythian passes peacefully in her sleep a few days later. The irony isn’t lost on the rest of them. It’s made even more poignant considering she dies with a grin on her face.

Out of an abundance of caution, they don’t do the ritual cremation for many days. They also have to wait for a new moon, as is the custom of the old ways. Quynh insists on it. None of them question her for extremely obvious reasons, considering her history with death.

They also turn to Quynh for a method of preservation. Apparently, salt was extremely expensive and a sign of wealth in Andy’s youth. As were saffron, turmeric, marjoram, cassia and myrrh. At least those are the ones that still exist in modern times that they can acquire.

Quynh adorns her lover’s body with gold, the most precious of Scythian treasures. Pouring the blend of salt and spices upon her, she and the others carefully wrap her in finely woven, yellow and red silk from modern day Harappa. Previously an old outpost along the original Silk Road, Andy insisted their weavers wove the best textiles even into the present. They are rendered even richer by modern methods of dyeing. Their colors also match the scarlet deer running rampant upon a field of gold that Andy remembered as the Scythian banner of warlords. 

The sounds of Quynh’s mournful chanting in a language no one has spoken in multiple millennia continues day and night from the cottage on the Caspian shore. There can be no more fitting tribute as they all await the new moon.

Joe, Nicky and Nile build a funeral pyre on the stretch of private beach in front of the cottage to Quynh’s exacting instructions the day the moon is to come. That night, they wait until it rises closest to the _Mriga_ constellation of the sky before they light the funeral pyre from all four corners. It blazes to life, illuminating their somber faces in roaring swathes of red and orange flame.

No one attempts to stop Quynh when she walks into the inferno. She does not scream or make a single sound of distress. It consumes her repeatedly, for it takes all night to burn down to embers. The remaining three of them watch the harrowing sight through the sunrise. Hands clasped with each other, they don’t move from their positions facing the sea.

As the morning dawns, they find Quynh whole and unburned within the remnants of its center. She sits cross-legged and naked, skin coated in black ash as she stares out at the sun cresting the horizon. It’s Joe who finds the courage to finally approach her.

“What would you have us do?” he reverently murmurs while gently draping one of her robes he’s retrieved from the cottage around her shivering shoulders.

She doesn’t stir. At the same time, it doesn’t’ feel right to repeat his entreaty. It is impossible for her to not have heard or seen him, along with the others standing slightly behind him. Nile’s quickly moved to fill the space temporarily left empty at Nicky’s side. Their arms wrapped around each other, they sway back and forth in silence. 

It takes Quynh what seems an age to reply. “We all will gather her ashes,” the words fall from her mouth in a tremble. She doesn’t turn to look at them as she whispers, “For it is an honor accorded only to family.”

They don’t question how she’s acquired the dark mahogany box that serves as the urn. Each side of it is decorated with swirling gold and silver leaf delicately hammered into a stunning scene of each of the four seasons. Its lid contains each half of the sun and moon mirrored across each other.

After finishing their grim duty of the gathering, the four of them hike up to an outlet overlooking a rocky shore where the waves crash against the sheer face of the cliff below.

Quynh sings out a prayer in that same, undulating language of the dead before she commits some of the ashes into the sea. Each of them follow suit in their native tongue. The blend of the Ligurian dialect of Genoa, archaic Arabic and eloquent English ring out among them. Some ashes remain at the end of their ceremony per the ancient custom. They are left in Quynh’s care as the widow of her beloved. The ritual complete, it is a silent walk back to the cottage.

Long live Andromache the Scythian, Queen of Her Days, Beloved and Cherished Among the Most High.

* * *

Nile is the last one to make it back to the hotel they’ve decided to stay at. Remaining at the cottage is too painful for all of them now. She asserts she prefers walking from the beach to clear her head rather than taking the car they’ve rented. Sure, the other three try to get her to join them, but she needs to grieve on her own. They’d never mock her for it. Problem is, this loss of one of them is new to her versus for them. Andy and Quynh mourned Lykon. Joe, Nicky and Andy mourned Quynh, except she’s back now. Nile has never been through any of this before. She needs to sort herself out as far as she’s concerned.

She listlessly wanders the streets for hours before she gets back to their hotel.

As the door clicks open to her room, her hand snaps to the gun tucked into the back of her waistband. Even without her immortality, her military training alerts her to the presence of someone who’s not supposed to be there.

Thankfully, it’s just Nicky.

Nile carefully sets the gun on the dresser next to the tv before sliding off her black overcoat. The double row of gold buttons down its front gives it the air of a military cape. She feels like Andy would’ve appreciated her private dedication to her life as a warrior.

Nicky’s sitting on the edge of the bed with his feet planted on the floor. His head hangs low, dark hair messily falling forward to shield his face on account that he's let it grow to shoulder length now. His hands are clasped together in front of him with his elbows resting on his knees. Shoulders a stiff line of sorrow, he’s as still as a statue.

Nile chucks off her heeled boots and slowly slides down to sit next him. He freely accepts how her head drops to rest in his lap. Beginning to carefully stroke a hand through her twists, he hums a tune that quickly bores its way into her bones. The sound is old and melodic, not of her time.

They sit like that as the sun sets. His song is only interrupted by their quiet sobs.

“You know something, _mia cara?”_ he delicately asks at a lull in her sniffles. She’s too exhausted to speak, nodding for him to continue. “It is good to cry with the rest of us. You are aware of this, _si?”_

Nile’s eyes flutter shut as she lets out a wobbly exhale. “I’ve got no right to feel as broken about her as you all do-”

“Who gave you this false notion?” Nicky fiercely interrupts, even as he continues to sooth a hand through her hair.

Nile rasps out, “I just figured you all knew her for so much longer, .”

“And yet she did not touch your life as well?” Nicky tosses back. “ _Piccola,”_ he murmurs, “No one knows how much Andromache affected you more than you do. You deserve to mourn however you wish. But do not avoid us because you think you do not share the depths of our sentiment, eh?”

Nile hates the way her lips quiver and how the fresh wave of tears come with Nicky’s reassurances. His hand moves to rest on her upper arm, thumb rubbing along her skin in little circles of solace. She shifts to get her head more comfortable in his lap as she deliberately says, “I promise I won’t block you out.”

 _“Eccellente_ …now,” he suddenly whispers, “How is Booker?”

A simple question laid bare, no hint of anger or condemnation behind it. It’s then that Nile connects why Joe isn’t there with them at the moment.

“He’s just as torn up about it,” Nile sniffs. She kept to her promise to call him at Andy’s passing. She also figured they knew he was around. It would make the most sense for him to pop up at such an occasion and risk everyone's wrath.

There’s a long pause before Nicky declares, “I won’t tell Joe-”

“Don’t hide anything from him on my account, Nicolò,” she quickly replies, if defensively. “I broke the rules of his exile by inviting him here where I knew the rest of us are." She refuses to sell out Quynh's role in it. No reason to overly complicate things. “Joe deserves to know that.”

Nicky drops a hand to hers in reassurance. “Andy would say _fuck_ the motherfucking rules.”

He’s rewarded with her laugh. It's quickly followed by her deep, wretched sob.

The sun’s sunk below the horizon hours ago when there’s a knock at the door. Joe’s voice rings out behind it. Nicky rocks to his feet and opens it. Greeting his lover with searching eyes and an aching kiss, they start exchanging words. Nile only manages to get half of it. She’s completely fluent in Arabic and modern Italian. Except Nicky's currently using his native Ligurian dialect of a bygone era. It proves his default whenever he’s running high on emotion.

After a while, Nile glances up to see Nicky standing next to where she’s now splayed out on the bed. He leans down and brushes his lips to her forehead while cradling her cheek. Bright, sea-green eyes meet hers. So full of empathy that it makes her heart clench, she reaches out for the anchor of his hand.

“We can stay with you tonight, if you need us.”

Joe drops to sit on her other side, his own hand gently falling to her shoulder. “Just say the word, _habibi_.”

Nile can’t help a brief grin as she slowly sits up and leans her head on Joe’s shoulder. “Thanks…thank you. Think I’ll be fine, though.” Joe and Nicky exchange a doubtful look. It causes Nile to double down. “Really, I’m good. Look, I’ll make you a deal; we can all sleep over at the cottage after dinner tomorrow night. We’ll be drunk off our asses anyway…I hope?”

Nicky nods in agreement _. “Ti terrò fedele alla tua parola,”_ he agrees, giving her hand a squeeze before withdrawing.

“So long as that’s what you truly want,” Joe murmurs.

Nile hums and sits up from Joe. “There we go then.”

Joe rubs a quick hand up and down her back before moving to his feet. “Where you off to?” he sidles up to his Nicky.

Nicky shrugs. “I need to go get cleaned up before we go to dinner.”

The three of them have plans to eat together tonight, with Quynh steadfastly declining their invitation. Nonetheless, she’s promised to join them tomorrow night. The four of them all agreed to order takeout, as much booze as possible and cart it all out to the cottage. They have no plans to stay in the house after that. At least not for some years. Nevertheless, a family dinner seems appropriate. It also ties right in with Quynh’s mention of feasting to close out the rituals.

Joe pulls Nicky into his arms and soundly kisses him. “See you soon _“ya qamar.”_

 _“Non sarà abbastanza presto, amore mio,”_ Nicky exhales against his mouth. He shuts the hotel door behind him, leaving the other two to stare at each other.

Joe breaks the silence first, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “I’m out of cigarettes,” he suddenly declares. “You have any?” he casually asks.

“No-”

“Don’t lie to me, _eini,”_ he grins, “You suck at it when you’re not getting shot at or are otherwise under duress.”

Nile rolls her eyes even as she leans over the side of the bed to dig around in her backpack. She quickly pulls out a freshly opened pack of Marlboro Reds. It’s the second one she’s opened today, her first one quickly decimated between her and Nicky. Understandably, they’ve all been succumbing to chasing the nicotine high as of late. Then again, it’s not like any of them can die from it.

She tosses the pack to Joe. He fluidly snatches it from the air, centuries of reflexes honed by experience. Pulling his silver lighter from his slacks and heading to the balcony, Nile finds herself following in his wake.

Since Baku is a seaside town dependent on tourists, the hotel is luxurious. The wide, whitewashed balcony’s metal rails are painted bright yellow. The view overlooks the Caspian’s shores. All of their rooms are right next to each other’s along one of the upper floors.

Joe smokes in an elegant way that speaks of an intimate knowledge of the vice. Then again, he hails from lands familiar with its art. Images of hushed conversations traded over a shared hookah within lush cafés dotted across a sea of sand fly to Nile's imagination. His strong, capable fingers delicately grasp the deadly instrument each time he brings it to his lips. Tendrils of smoke seem to curl around him like a caress. Just watching him, Nile finally understands how older generations thought such an act looked so damn attractive.

“Pass me one of those, will you?” she all but orders.

“These will kill you, you know,” Joe sarcastically replies even as he holds the pack so she can easily fish one out.

"Whatever will I do with myself?" she cynically shoots back, tapping its bottom against the railing before sticking it between her lips.

Joe graces her with a fleeting laugh before he goes silent. As he cups his hand around the flame of his lighter to light her cigarette, his dark eyes flit to hers.

“He’s here in town, isn’t he?” he flatly asks with no preamble.

There’s no reason for her to deny it. “Yep,” she replies without an ounce of shame.

He doesn’t respond, taking a long drag off of his own cigarette. They smoke in dull silence before they each light up another one.

“I don’t hate you for telling him,” Joe finally admits.

She turns her head to look at him. Expression contemplative, his other hand is clenched and bouncing up and down on the railing. She graces him with a brief grin. “Wouldn’t care if you did.”

He lets out a subdued chuckle. “That’s why I’ve always liked you, _habibti.”_

“Come again?” she blinks.

Joe tosses an arm around her shoulder and leans into her. His curly, coiled hair shorter now, its soft and smells of the familiar citrusy, sulfate free shampoo she knows since they both use it. They’ve split the cost for decades, ever since she caught him stealing it and running through it like crazy. He started doing it after she kept swiping bits of the _qatayef_ he’d make roughly once a year.

“You fight for us,” Joe affirmed, “For _all_ of us. Even when the odds and opinions are against you.”

“Even for traitors?” she warily replies.

Joe shrugs. “No reason to be a cruel fucker to him in light of…all of this,” he waves around. “He loves her too. Who am I to deny him her final goodbye?” Nile dips her head against him in agreement. However, she’s not ready for what comes tumbling out of him next.

“Think I’m more pissed at myself now than I ever was at him.”

Nile’s head snaps to Joe, her face awash in astonishment. She’s barely able to make him out, he’s said it all so low. No matter, as she explicitly knows that her hearing is perfect, considering her immortal state. “You…you wanna run that by me again, Yusuf?” she sputters.

Joe lets out such a hard sigh that she suspects he’s compressed all the air out of his lungs. Pulling away from her, he sinks back against the patio door to her side. “I should have seen it coming from him, ‘tis all.”

“His betrayal?” she doubtfully replies. "Yeah, he brought that all on himself," she firmly continues. "You and I... _everyone_ knows that."

Joe jerks his head in disagreement, throwing up an arm for emphasis. “Not that. I never suspected that of him.”

Nile runs a hand down her face before she flexes her fingers in front of herself. “I don’t think any of you did. That’s no one’s fault but his for doing it in the first place.”

Joe’s sad smirk makes her heart hurt for him as his dark eyes tentatively meet hers. “I forget you’re so young sometimes, no insult intended,” he holds up a hand of surrender at her affronted expression. “None of that is what I meant. I’m talking about…I wasn’t paying attention enough to Sébastien to see how much he fucking _hurt_ for all of these endless decades. Should have never let it build up that far to where he felt like he had to go to outsiders for alleviation.”

Nile bites at her lower lip, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet for a bit. “Booker also never actually _said_ anything to you guys either,” she replies.

“He wanted to _kill himself_ , Nile.”

Nile is stunned, nearly missing how Joe puts out his cigarette and flutters his fingers at her for another one. Her movements are sluggish as she digs a new one out of the pack in her pocket and passes it to him.

“Well… _shit_ , then. The PTSD of it all," she rasps. 

Joe lights up, sucks down as much nicotine as humanly possible in a single inhale and blows out the smoke with a weary puff. “Yeah,” he drops his elbows to his knees, “All of that…I was blind to it. It’s pretty fucked up, you know?”

Nile wanders over to drop a comforting hand on his shoulder. “C’mon Joe, anyone can completely miss what's right in front of them. It’s human nature,” she carefully says. “Even the person who committed the sin against us does too. All of it is a two-way street. Always has been, always will be.”

 _“The wisest is the one who can forgive,”_ Joe retorts.

Nile has heard the proverb before. In its native Arabic, no less. She vaguely recalls it from her lessons in the language from the Marines.

She still counters, “That’s not fair to the rest of you.” Joe’s unimpressed look has her adding, “I barely knew him when he sold you all out to Merrick, so the cut was more of a nick to me. Still though, there’s the _treason_ of it all; he's a grown-ass man who actively made choices.”

Joe inhales more of his cigarette and slightly narrows his eyes in evaluation. “Knowing him better now, would you still have exiled him for this long?”

“I don't know exactly,” she answers without hesitation. "But again, his betrayal wasn't fully against me. So I'm not the right person to answer all that. Most importantly, the time apart is for your guys' benefit to heal away from him. To feel safe to sort out what you all went through without the cloud of him being around."

Joe nods in agreement, waving for her to continue.

“Whereas some of us can see the forest for trees, he needed to be pushed, hell, forced into self-reflection to make amends. He’s getting therapy now, you know?” She doesn’t miss Joe’s astounded grunt of acknowledgement. “Honestly, having everything laid out so stark before him in the aftermath of Merrick is how he's getting to the light at the end of his tunnel."

Joe lets out a mirthless chuckle. “You heart proves so bottomless, it’s nearly unfathomable to me sometimes, _habibata._ Yet you wield your justice like the tip of Athena’s blessed spear. It is truly a sight to behold..”

Nile furrows her brow. “Uh, real talk? I don’t know whether to be flattered or offended.”

“The former, I hope,” Joe reaches up to grasp at her fingers where her hand still rests on his shoulder.

They stand together in the quiet for some time. Nile lights up another one, promising Joe it will be her last for the night when he shoots her a sideways look. They also both end up back at the railing of the patio and staring out over the sea. Eventually, it’s Joe who breaks their companionable silence.

“By the way, tell him I said hello.”

Nile freezes before recovering. To anyone else, it’d be imperceptible. Then again, she’s having a conversation with someone who’s over a thousand years old now.

She takes a long drag on her cigarette that nearly ends it. Blowing out the smoke, she watches as it curls upwards before it dissipates on the wind. “What makes you think I’ll even bother to see him again-?”

“Because it is what I would do,” he quietly interrupts. His shoulders slouch as he drops his forearms to lean on the railing. His rigid stare at the Caspian reminds her all too much of that haunted look she’d seen on fellow soldiers in her old life. Usually, when they were fresh in from missions hunting down insurgents.

“It is what I would do,” he repeats after a long while, “To checkup on how he’s coping with Andy being gone now. _No one_ should grieve alone…not even turncoats,” the corner of his mouth curls upwards.

She flicks her cigarette over the balcony and hauls him in for a hug. She makes sure to maneuver so that she has him firmly in her arms. He wraps his own around her back, closes his eyes and leans his head to hers. If either of them feel tears falling onto each other, they don’t mention it. Nor do they frankly care.

Joe withdraws first. Nile immediately reaches up to lightly brush away the wetness on his cheeks with the pads of her fingers.

“Oh, _habibata,”_ he mournfully utters while trying to wipe at his face with the back of his hand. It’s a vain pursuit. For Nile clucks her tongue in reproach and urges his arm away so she can continue. Joe uses her distraction to gently take her cheeks in his hands and press a lingering kiss to her temple. “I should be the one comforting you,” he swears against her. 

“There is no shame in feelings, Yusuf,” she softly comforts him. “Or haven’t you heard how us Millennials had no use for toxic masculinity?”

“You delightful innocents act as though you’ve cornered the market on the concept of the woke boy,” he jokingly grouses. Nile can’t hold in a burst of laughter at his flawless use of such a modern term from her own era. “The empire I was born into wrote some of the most beautiful love poems in human history. Our caliphs practiced the art of calligraphy, gardening, architecture, mathematics and a myriad of other pursuits as a form of meditation. All alongside their study of the blade.”

“Don’t tell Nicky that,” she grins, “Or he’ll start a verbal dissertation on _Il Rinascimento_. It could last for weeks _,_ you know _._ ”

Joe’s laugh is rough, still tinged with the heaviness of his sorrow. “Couldn’t have happened without us keeping copies of all the texts those western idiots lost after the fall of Rome,” he proudly retorts. “Nicolò knows what’s up.”

“Good thing he keeps you around to remind him,” Nile smooths a comforting hand through Joe’s curls.

“Hey now, I’m a goddamn catch!” he looks up and exclaims. They both know she’s joking. It also serves to swiftly change the subject. “Whatever you get up to tomorrow,” he lightly continues, “There’s a glut of rather charming coffee shops over in the Bayil district. Plenty of galleries for you to browse as well. It would be a nice day trip.”

She gives him a knowing nod. “Thanks for the tip.” They both know his recommendation serves as code for the fact that none of the rest of them will be near the area when she meets up with Booker.

They retreat back into her room and say their goodbyes for now.

Joe drops his hand to the front door but pauses. “Hey Nile? Before I forget?”

“Yeah?” she looks to him as she scrounges up her bag of toiletries from her backpack for a quick shower.

“Don’t forget to tell Booker to fuck off. Special delivery,” he points two thumbs at himself, “From this guy.”

It’s the first time she’s witnessed Joe say it with no hint of malice. And all in the same teasing tone he constantly uses with the rest of them.

“Will do,” she grins.

* * *

“Come, Nile,” Quynh waves the other woman into Andy’s bedroom. “I require your assistance. Quick now,” she snappily orders.

It’s the next morning and all of them are back at the cottage. Preparing it as a fully operational safehouse for future use takes work. Deep cleaning, stocking of nonperishables, various types of currencies and vacuum sealing sheets and other supplies is required. Joe and Nicky are out shopping for canned and packaged food. Nile has just returned from the currency exchange and is carefully counting out the cash into neat stacks where she sits at the desk in the den. Since Booker’s exile, she’s been tasked with tracking the team’s day to day financials. Being the youngest among them and an expert on the modern world made her the ideal candidate for such tasks.

(Like his predecessors, Copley the Third handles the financial planning, though he can’t do so without Nile accessing the digital accounts with him and in person. It’s not that they don’t have faith in the Copley family after three-quarters of a century with zero fuck-ups. It’s just that they’re all naturally paranoid)

At the sound of Quynh’s summons, Nile skittishly steps through the door. She can’t suppress her flinch when Quynh abruptly spins on her heel towards her. It doesn’t help that Quynh’s dark eyes unblinkingly bore into hers. Like she knows _exactly_ why Nile’s mind is racing. The way she deliberately shifts away from Nile without turning her back to her while purposefully lowering her gaze confirms it.

“I understand why you and the others do not trust anything of me,” she exhales.

“That’s not tru-”

Nile’s mouth snaps shut at Quynh’s swiftly upheld hand. “You lack skills when it comes to casual deception outside of when your life depends on it,” she cuts her off. Nile takes in how the corner of Quynh’s mouth briefly tilts upwards. She has to admit it takes the insult out of her next words. “I am not the person you should try to deceive, for you will fail at it. You should also not sell away your honesty for my sake.”

Nile swallows but can’t help muttering, “I mean, you had a thing for murdering us accidently-on-purpose that seems to have stopped only rather recently, just sayin’.”

Quynh looks away, focusing on a spot on the wall to her right. Cheeks flushed she slowly nods. “You tell the truth, _một người trẻ tuổi._ I do not blame you nor the others for your judgements.”

“Especially with Andy…Andromache gone now,” Nile nervously wipes at the back of her neck. “That…can’t be easy. I don’t even know how to, well, begin to think about what you, uh, must be going through…dealing with.”

“You know nothing of it, yes,” Quynh trembles.

Going stiff, her hands at her sides ball into tight fists as her shoulders heave. Nile doesn’t even realize that she’s instinctively pressed herself up against the doorjamb with the wind at her back. It’s a natural inclination to be closest to an escape route. How Quynh’s fiery gaze snaps to hers reinforces her decision. Even if the reality is it really wouldn’t save Nile should the other woman choose to attack.

Nile forces herself not to make any hasty movements. “You…you good?”

Quynh sharply shakes that no, she is in fact not good. Before Nile can get in another word, the other woman crumbles to the floor in a shuddering mass of abject grief.

Nile doesn’t give herself a chance to process it as she haphazardly drops to the floor and pulls Quynh into her arms. The other woman doesn’t resist. Instead, she presses her face into Nile’s shoulder, her fists cradled against her chest as she howls out her anguish. It’s piercing and desolate and full of an ache that speaks of boundless despair.

Hours seem to pass before Quynh’s sobs subside.

“Why…did you walk into the fire?” Nile tentatively asks, carefully running her fingers through her hair as she cradles her to her. She doesn’t expect Quynh’s bitter smile as she pulls away. It’s not directed at her, which she’s not going to argue with.

“Back in our time, in the early days before the world was such…noise,” Quynh shakes a hand around the room as she settles back on her knees, “We burned our dead in much the same way I showed you all.” Nile silently nods as Quynh exhales. “A sign of devotion upon a beloved’s death was to join them within the cleansing flame. An eternity together promised.”

Reeling at her revelation, Nile stammers, “Except we can’t die how normal people do.”

“We cannot die,” Quynh shakily repeats. “We cannot die until our fate is determined by reckless fortune. This,” she clutches Nile’s hand where it rests against her stomach, “This is why we praise death for the gift it grants. The mortals do not know of their privilege. Never forget this. Promise me, you will not.”

“I swear it on my family,” Nile vows without hesitation. Quynh’s grip of her hand is beginning to cut off her circulation. Then again, the intent behind it brokers no harm.

“Good, good,” the older woman breathes in relief. Sweeping to her feet, she opens the small wardrobe in the corner of the room and begins searching around. Nile gradually moves to her feet as well. 

She is hopelessly outmatched when it comes to the necessary speed to go into a defensive stance as Quynh suddenly reappears in front of her and presses something into her hands. Luckily, nothing nefarious seems to follow. All Nile feels is the cool, sturdy sensation of whatever Quynh’s given her. Looking down, Nile curiously takes in what appears to be a sealed gold urn. It’s in the style of an ancient Grecian krater shaped vase that she’s seen in various museums. No bigger than a small gift box, it easily fits in one hand.

“He is family, no matter his punishment,” Quynh hums. They both know who she speaks of. Her depthless eyes seem to plumb Nile’s soul with their unwavering stare. “He must scatter her as the rest of us have done. It is willed by tradition. It will put her at final rest.”

Nile clasps her wrist and barely manages to utter her words of thanks. Quynh’s expression relaxes as her slim fingers trace the rim of the urn.

“It is you who insisted on his presence.”

“I-” 

“Do not question yourself,” Quynh forcefully interrupts her. “This,” she carefully presses her other palm to Nile’s chest, “Is why you were chosen.” Closing her eyes for a moment, her grin flits across her face so fast that Nile doesn’t know if she’s truly seen it. If she did, it’s the first time Nile has seen her expression bereft of the promise of violence or abject sorrow since they’ve been in Baku.

“She always said your heart was true,” Quynh affirms. “Do not prove her wrong.”

“Only if you promise me something too,” Nile stubbornly counters. At Quynh’s puzzled face, she steels herself. “You can’t grieve alone, Quynh. Not when the rest of us are here. Fine, there’s no way in hell we can all claim to know her nearly as much as you do. That doesn’t mean we don’t want to share your burden. Let us in, okay?”

Quynh’s silence isn’t nearly as unnerving as Nile expects it to be. It’s made even less so when she finally shakes her head in agreement. “There is no better vow that I may pledge myself to for you. For the others.” She briefly cups Nile’s cheek, expression peaceful. “I assure you of my fidelity in this, Nile Freeman.”

With that, she waves Nile away and begins organizing various things in the room.

Nile speedily retreats, leaving the other woman to her tasks. She then texts Joe and Nicky that she’s going to explore the Bayil district at Joe’s suggestion. She’ll meet them all back at the cottage for dinner, as previously agreed. They text back that they’ve taken the car into town but can return to get her if she needs a lift. She declines but appreciates the sentiment.

 _See you tonight, habibi,_ Joe texts, _Be careful._

 _Promise him you will be_ is followed by an eyeroll emoji from Nicky on the group text. _He’s in a mood._

 _Liar_ Joe immediately texts. Nile watches the three blinking bubbles with amusement before he continues. _He’s just jealous that my choice for breakfast was better than his from yesterday. I blame it on his mediocre western palette and the weak-ass spice trade port he was born into._

Another eyeroll emoji comes from Nicky. It’s followed by a heart one and _Love you, N._

She sends back a glittering heart emoji before closing out the conversation as she steps out of the front door.

At least some things never change.

* * *

Once again, Booker is already at their agreed upon meeting place. It’s back at the little outlet overlooking the cliff where the other four of them scattered Andy’s ashes yesterday.

“Hey you,” he tentatively greets her. His hands stuffed in his pockets, he’s a bit slouched. He goes to run a fidgety hand through his hair. Except he’s wearing his knit cap again since it’s another slightly chilly day. Realizing that, he drops his hand back down to his side, fingers tapping out a nervous rhythm along his leg.

“Hey _you_ ,” Nile replies with a fleeting grin.

Seeing how she’s relatively loose limbed and not staring daggers at him, Booker purses his lips for a quick moment. “Does this, uh, mean we’re good now?”

She worries her lower lip with her teeth before nodding, “Not a hundred percent...but it’s better, yeah.”

“I’ll take it,” he replies with a growing smile.

“You don’t have a choice.” However the sting is taken out by the way she bumps her shoulder into his.

This time, they stand in comfortable silence before Nile pushes the golden cup into Booker’s hands. He glances down at it in bewilderment. She takes a deep breath before she firmly says, “You don’t deserve to be left out of our closure. They are yours to scatter too.”

Even as Booker shakes his head in disagreement and thumbs at his watery eyes, he whispers, “Thank you.”

“It is willed by tradition,” Nile softly reiterates.

He brays out a ragged chuckle and shoots her a knowing look with reddened eyes. “From your descriptions, that sounds like Quynh for sure.”

“That’s a bingo,” Nile flashes him a shaky grin.

Booker stares down to where he holds Andy’s ashes only to look back up at Nile with a dazed expression.

“I’ll go if you want,” she breathes, “So you can scatter them alone. Have some personal time with-”

 _“Merde,_ no,” Booker entreats. His hazy gaze is wide with what can only be described as rising anguish. “I can’t possibly do this alone… _s'il vous plaît.”_ His voice is so diminished, she can almost fool herself into thinking she didn’t hear him as he holds out his hand to her.

She won’t force him to beg. Even under the worst of circumstances, she would never bring him so low.

She takes him without another word, her grip sure around his. Leading him to the exact spot the others scattered Andy’s ashes, she can feel him dragging his feet behind her. She doesn’t blame him for it at all.

Explaining to him how they each said their words of remembrance for Andy aloud when they did the deed, she stands back to give him some space.

Booker closes his eyes in contemplation for a long time. Finally opening them, he begins his solemn recitation. Nile easily translates the words to English in her head:

_Tomorrow, at dawn, when the countryside brightens,  
I will depart. You see, I know that you wait for me.  
I will go through the wood, I will go past the mountains.  
I cannot remain far from you any longer._

_I will walk, eyes set upon my thoughts,  
Seeing nothing around me and hearing no sound,  
Alone, unknown, back bent, hands crossed,  
Sorrowful, and for me, day will be as night._

_I will not watch the evening gold fall,  
Nor the distant sails going down to Harfleur,  
And, when I arrive, I will put on your grave  
A bouquet of green holly and heather in bloom._

Silently scattering Andy’s ashes, he palms the gold urn before hurling it into the sea as well. The two of them watch as it eventually sinks below the waves.

Nile doesn’t bother to wipe away her tears. “Beautiful,” she shakily proclaims.

Looking abashed, Booker slowly shrugs, “ _Tomorrow, at Dawn,_ by Victor Hugo. Or as I like to call him,” he reverently murmurs, “The only man brave enough to write true of what revolutions mean for us filthy commoners.”

Nile nods in agreement. “ _Les Misérables_ is a wild read, that’s for sure.”

Booker tosses an arm around her shoulder while throwing up his other hand in relief. “Fucking finally! Someone who doesn’t sing the praises of that disgusting excuse of a musical. It’s a crime against not only humanity but also my old friend.” He adores the usual look of shock and awe that flies to Nile’s face whenever any of them has a spontaneous historical recollection. It never gets old. “Remind me to show you my first edition, signed copy of it,” he hugs her into his side.

“Not if you ever want it back,” she warns with that recognizable sparkle in her eyes.

“Is that a threat, _ma belle?”_ Booker retorts, allegedly scandalized.

She shoots him a saccharine look only to chirp, “I preemptively plead the fifth.”

She's rewarded the first real laugh she’s heard out of him their entire time in Baku.

* * *

They grab lunch to go and wander to picnic in _Filarmoniya Bağı_ or Philharmonia Garden. A park in the _Ichari Shahar_ or Inner City section of town, it's located on the other side of palace and Maiden Tower and further inland.

Spreading out their food on a rented blanket from one of the merchant stands dotting the landscape, their location on the grass allows them to take in the view of the marble fountain and philharmonic hall the park is named for. The nippy late autumn weather doesn’t seem to dissuade the city’s population from descending on the green commons. Rain expected over the next few days, they’re enjoying their last bit of sun for a while. 

Content to people watch, they have the rest of the day. So there’s no rush.

Eventually, Booker clears his throat. Nile looks over to where he’s watching her, eyes bright with expectation. “Yes?” she tosses out, though not harshly, “Can I help you?” 

“So, uh, after we…parted ways in Dakar, I headed to Québec,” he exhales. Running his hands up and down his knees where he sits next to her, he then leans back on his hands to take in the sky for a bit. At her inquisitive look, he adds, “Their French is closer to how it sounded when I was young.”

She nods in understanding, her old high school history classes flying back to her memory. The Quebecois dialect was older than modern French. “What’d you find there?”

“Teaching school kids.” Her eyes widen in surprise. “It was a comfort, seeing all those hopeful little faces every day.”

“That so?” she replies sitting up straighter and stretching her legs out in front of her. “How old were they?”

His grin is the most blissful she’s ever seen it. “Second and third graders.”

A memory of playing in the backyard with her brother when he was around the same age kicks into her consciousness. She doesn’t outwardly cry but it’s still rends at her heart. Despite the others’ warnings about dwelling on her past, she knows he’s still alive. He also likely doesn’t remember her anymore on account of the dementia.

She'd turned 101 a few weeks ago.

Looking over at Booker and seeing his contented expression, she murmurs, “They’re real sweethearts at that age.”

“Curious little buggers,” he sighs. It’s not a sound of defeat this time. “They still see right and wrong in black and white. Brave, too. Unafraid to call each other out and defend their friends over the simplest little things. All while being too young to hold a grudge or remember every slight.” He doesn’t say anything for a long while until he breathes out, “They’re also young enough where they won’t remember me too much.”

“That helps,” Nile nods. “How long did you stay?”

He sounds only slightly mournful when he replies, “17 years and moving around the Province often enough. Just under a couple of decades always seems to be the mark when people start noticing that you don’t age. There’s your advice for the day,” he quietly chuckles.

“Duly noted,” Nile brings him in for a quick side-hug. “I’m proud of you, Book,” she rests her chin on his shoulder.

He adamantly nods in disagreement. “Should have done this all decades ago.”

“Most folks can’t even take the first step,” she quietly replies. “So they stay hurting the people who give a damn about them until everyone just walks away.”

“Look how far that fuck up got me,” Booker admonishes himself.

Nile leans back, even as she firmly counters, “‘Cause you’re the first person to make a mistake, right?”

“I’m not, no.”

“Exactly what I’m talking about,” she asserts. “Look at it this way; at least we have lifetimes to let the inner renovations stick.”

She doesn’t expect his lopsided grin as he retorts, “So I’m a fixer-upper now? Had to rip out all of the old flooring, batter down the walls? Start from the foundation and framing up? What, a slap of paint and some new furniture wasn’t enough?”

Her laugh is tinkling and high, washing over him like it does during the less fraught times between them. “We’re going to lose ourselves in the metaphor at some point, you know.”

“Don’t mind doing it with the rest of you when this is all over,” he rasps, gaze sliding to somber, “Only if you…the rest of you will have me.”

Nile slowly blinks before she purses her lips. “A promise is a promise. You’ll be off the hook when your time’s up. I know I'm sure in the hell not in the habit of going back on my word.” 

_“Merci_ ,” Booker turns his head and gives her a warm look of gratitude. Nile vainly ignores how her stomach pleasantly flutters at his gesture.

The continue taking in the park scenery. There’re more people scattered around and laying out on the grass. A few kids toss a ball back and forth between themselves. The majority of people stroll around engrossed in their cell phones. Most of the activity comes from around the marble and bronze, circular fountain at the center of the green within view of the old stone fort. It seems to be a central meeting place, judging by the scores of people coming and going. Observing various groups of friends so happy to see each other before they wander off causes a lump to suddenly rise in Nile’s throat.

Surreptitiously wiping at her eyes, Nile shifts to lie back with her head on one bent arm. The azure sky above is starting to darken due to the clouds slowly rolling in from the sea. She contemplates how it matches her shadowed mood.

“Tell me about Andy, Booker,” she whispers.

It takes him a long while to respond. “What do you want to know?” his voice is steadier than she expected. However, looking over, she sees he’s shifted to sit up ramrod straight. The tension in his stiff arms and shoulders is obvious. His thousand-yard stare isn’t a good sign either.

“Hey,” Nile reaches over to his knee. He immediately drops his hand to hers. “You don’t have to talk about it if it’s too much.”

He glances over at her with a despondent grin. “It’s not, don’t worry.” 

“Again, you don’t have to-”

“I just wasn’t expecting anyone to want to hear from me on Andy so…soon,” he faintly replies with a squeeze of her hand.

Feeling the blanket shift, Nile glances over to see him now lying propped up on his elbow next to her. He’s not looking directly at her. Nonetheless he’s close enough for her to see the rise and fall of his chest with each breath.

Booker can’t help lingering on how her twists prettily fade from dark to gold. Spread out on the blanket around her shoulders where she's lying down, their thick waves seem to surround her like a halo.

“May I?” he tentatively rumbles.

She can see his hand rests only a few inches from the edges of her hair. At the same time, he’s made sure to not make contact. “Trust, I appreciate you asking,” she intones, “And yes, you may.”

“Promise I’ll be careful,” he begins to mindlessly curl the springy edges around his fingers.

She lets out a distant chuckle and closes her eyes to soak up the sun. “Well, I’m not in the mood to break your wrist for tugging too hard. So it’s a win-win for both of us.” 

His pithy snort of laughter soothes them both. And then, he proceeds to tell her some stories of Andy before Nile came along. The zany adventures and whatnot.

There’s the time they went on a rather exciting bank robbing spree throughout the Midwest. Mostly to give away the funds to the poor farmers trapped in crushing poverty brought on by the Great Depression. Also for the sheer thrill of throwing up a proverbial middle finger to that asshole, J. Edgar. Somewhere in an old, yellowed FBI file, there are probably still wanted posters of all four of them looking dapper as hell in pinstriped suits and masks, wielding Tommy Guns.

Apparently, Andy threatened to disembowel Stalin personally when he finally bothered to show up well after the Siege of Leningrad was lifted. She was arrested, charged with treason and condemned to hang in the span of a few hours. However, she managed to break out after bribing the guards. Catching a few bullets at the edge of the forest around the perimeter of the prison proved a minor hinderance.

Alexandre Dumas was so pissed at her when she moved on and ended their affair that he based Milady de Winter from _The Three Musketeers_ on her. Booker spent the rest of Dumas’ life publishing scathing reviews of every single one of his works under a _nom de plume_ for _Le Fiagro_. Even after Andy brushed it off.

“Wait a minute,” Nile rolls over to face him, “ _Musketeers_ was published in the 1840s. Dumas died, like, 1870ish.”

Booker’s grin is the very picture of scornful disdain. “Precisely, _mademoiselle_ Freeman.”

“Nearly 30 years, though?!” It only makes him smile even more. “You are a _savage_ ,” she throws her head back with mirthful laughter. 

They chatter back and forth until Nile realizes she needs to get a move on to meet the others at the cottage for dinner. Cleaning up and returning the blanket, they amble in the direction of her and the others' hotel so she can pack her necessary things for tonight.

She doesn’t flinch when he drops an arm around her. “Thanks for telling Quynh to let me know about Andy,” he lets out a deep breath while nodding in the direction of the sea. 

"I _was_ pissed the fuck off at you-"

"I deserved it," he interrupts.

“Still didn’t want to be an asshole about it,” her voice wavers.

She turns into him as he brings her into a hug. He feels her shaking with tears as she presses her face into his shoulder and wraps her arms underneath his. “Ugh, I shouldn’t be like this,” she raggedly mutters, “Not when all of you knew her for so much longer.”

“Don’t you _ever_ apologize for your feelings, Nile,” he orders. Tenderly tilting her chin up with his fingers, he insists, “Not especially to me, _d'accord?"_

She silently nods before he drops a kiss to her forehead. He then mumbles something in his native tongue she can’t quite make out. When he pulls away, her eyes are still closed, lower lip trembling.

He touches his forehead to hers. “You’re gonna be okay, kiddo," his words dance across her face.

This time, she doesn’t reprimand him for calling her such.

Stepping back, she looks up at him. “You said something just now,” she wrinkles her brow, “In French. It was pretty long.” They both know she’s been as fluent as he is for decades. Nevertheless, there’s still the odd idiom or turn of phrase that doesn’t quite translate.

 _“Au coeur de l’incertitude, il y a toujours l’espoir, si fragile soit-il,”_ he utters, enveloping her into another tight hug. “At the heart of uncertainty, there is always hope, no matter how fragile it may be.”

Nile bears no argument against that sentiment.

* * *

“I should go before anyone sees me,” Booker quietly announces a few blocks before they reach the hotel.

“That’s fine,” Nile retorts, “Wait a minute, though.”

She digs into her coat pocket to reveal a small red velvet pouch. Gently placing it in his hand, she waves for him to open it.

Within it lies an oval shaped gold locket. While its front is plain, its back reveals a beautifully hammered and etched profile image of Andy. It's based on the Hellenic Greek-era drawing of her that Booker recognizes from one of the pictures scattered on Copley the First’s board that tracked them all throughout the centuries.

Booker pops open the clasp to find a glass vial filled with black. Nile’s hand drops to her chest. For the first time, Booker notices a second chain around her neck in addition to her usual gold cross. It dips beneath the collar of her shirt, so he can’t tell what’s on its other end.

“So you can take a part of her with you wherever you go,” Nile reverently says as his gaze meets hers. “Quynh had them made, one for each of us. It was...a thing they did back during their time. To always remember.”

Booker closes his hand around it for a long moment before he slides its chain around his neck.

“Some of her ashes?” he brokenly asks. Nile nods.

They hug again before parting. “See you when I see you, Nile,” he promises.

“Hopefully it’ll be for a happier reason.”

 _“J'espère bien,”_ he whispers.

Crossing the street, he disappears into the crowd. Yet he turns to watch her linger on the sidewalk. He doesn’t leave as she takes a few walks around the block. Not until he sees her finally make it into the lobby of the hotel does he turn and head in the opposite direction.

He has a quarter century to go of his exile.

Well isn’t that just fucking nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Notes and Translations:**
> 
> _Мудак_ \- Pronounced _“mudak.”_ Russian for the male version of “moron” though it literally means “testicle.” It may also go back to a Sanskrit word for “idiot.” Considering Andy’s age, I’ll assume she’s using it in that older way.
> 
>  _“Taisez-vous”_ – “Shut-up” in French.
> 
>  _“mon amour”_ – “my love (masculine)" in French
> 
>  _“Adieu”_ \- “Goodbye” in French. It’s very formal and has a sense of finality, in that you are relatively sure you may never see the other person again.
> 
>  _“Prends soin de toi”_ – “Take care of yourself” in French.
> 
>  _“C'est bon.”_ \- “It’s fine” in French
> 
>  _Mriga_ – translates to “The Deer” in ancient Sanskrit. It’s the name for part of the the constellation of known as Orion in the west. 
> 
> _“S'il vous plaît”_ – “Please” in French.
> 
>  _“Piccola”_ – “Little one (feminine)” in Italian.
> 
>  _“Ti terrò fedele alla tua parola”_ – “I will hold you to your word” in Italian.
> 
>  _“ya qamar”_ – “My moon” in Arabic.
> 
>  _“Non sarà abbastanza presto, amore mio”_ – “It will not be soon enough, my love” in Italian.
> 
>  _“eini”_ – “My eye” in Arabic, though the context is more like an affectionate “My love” since eyes are culturally precious. It’s basically comparing an important part of you to someone who’s close to you.
> 
>  _“habibti”_ – “My love (feminine)" in Arabic.
> 
>  _qatayef_ – Also called “atayef.” It’s basically Arabic pancakes that can be filled with white cheese or nuts and soaked in a sugary rose syrup. Usually only made during Ramadan. Hence, Joe making it once a year. They date back to the Abbasid Caliphate from 750-1258 CE
> 
>  _“habibata”_ – “My love” in Arabic.
> 
>  _“một người trẻ tuổi”_ – “Young one” in Vietnamese. Veronica Ngo, who plays Quynh, is Vietnamese. Quynh in the movie is based on the character of Noriko from the comics, who is Japanese. The change was apparently made to respect Ngo's ethnicity for her excellent casting.
> 
>  _Tomorrow at Dawn_ or _Demain, dès l’aube_ is one of Victor Hugo’s most famous poems. It was written to mourn his daughter, Léopoldine, who accidentally drowned with her husband in 1843.
> 
> “At the heart of uncertainty, there is always hope, no matter how fragile it may be.” – Attributed to Robert Choquette, a Canadian novelist, poet and diplomat who grew up in Montreal.
> 
>  _“J'espère bien”_ – “I hope so” in French. 
> 
> Philharmonia Garden is real, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Philarmonia_Garden and looks pretty stunning, https://image.shutterstock.com/image-photo/philharmonic-fountain-park-near-old-600w-749387095.jpg
> 
> As for looks being served up in this chapter, more KiKi inspirational hair goals. Though these are goddess locks versus kinky twists. However, their ombre color is exactly I was going for in this chapter, https://www.instagram.com/p/B_-qooHJVBf/?utm_source=ig_web_button_share_sheet
> 
> Veronica looking stunning in badass menswear, https://i.pinimg.com/564x/15/1c/a7/151ca73fa93c4e7279f990c77d06c338.jpg
> 
> Luca rocking long hair like a pirate king, https://64.media.tumblr.com/0f3f821da717bdcf5bbbaf425973390b/fad25b749f7706dc-68/s400x600/f4e9774c88dd68cdad76a9ffba2fed96dada2169.jpg
> 
> Marwan with slightly shorter hair, smoldering it up and trying to kill us with the hotness, https://i.pinimg.com/564x/84/cd/c9/84cdc9bdf2cee78720e70e2a24a0501d.jpg
> 
> Matthias in crisp Autumn wear, https://imagesvc.meredithcorp.io/v3/mm/image?url=https%3A%2F%2Fstatic.onecms.io%2Fwp-content%2Fuploads%2Fsites%2F14%2F2015%2F11%2F23%2F112315-december-mos-lead-2000.jpg
> 
> I’ve started to have Song Inspirations for these last few chapters. The inspiration for this is _Dawn of a New Time_ from the Battlefield 1 video game soundtrack, https://youtu.be/-mta8kdXWSA It’s end melody is based on a Macedonian folk song called _Zajdi Zajdi._ As Andy is from ancient times, she would remember the time of Philip of Macedon (Macedonia) and his son, Alexander the Great. Hell, she probably fought alongside both of them. Translation of the Macedonian lyrics into English:
> 
> _Set, set bright sun,  
>  Set, blackout  
> And you clear moonlight too  
> Run away, drown yourself_
> 
> _Sad forest, sad sister,  
>  Let’s be sad together  
> You- for your leaves, forest  
> Me- for my youth._
> 
> _Your leaves, forest – my sister,  
>  Are going to get back to you  
> My youth, forest – my sister,  
> It’s not coming back_.


	5. Santarém, Brazil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Admittedly, I was going to wait to post this until tomorrow on Tuesday and as per usual. But the heart wants what it wants. Hope you all enjoy.

**The Amazon Rainforest Just Outside of Santarém, Brazil**

“This right _here?”_ Nile growls, “Is some _bullshit.”_

“You shouldn’t worry yourself over it,” Booker yawns to her right where he’s sitting on the filthy concrete floor of the storage room. He’s flush against her, knees drawn up and shoulder slanted to make it more comfortable for her to rest her head on. “My reporter ruse didn’t work either.”

Nile curls her lip with derision while scratching at the back of her head. Her snort of indignation is loud as she flicks away some of the dried blood matted in her hair. For fuck’s sake, she’d washed, deep conditioned and set her hair for the twist out on her springy curls only a couple of damn days ago. Now, she's back to square one on that front.

“You’d think they’d have more respect for a lumber mill inspector,” she sniffs. 

“Even a fake one?” Booker drawls in the near pitch-black darkness surrounding them. The only light afforded them is the result of a sliver of it streaming in from under the gap between the door and floor.

“At least these evil types are getting smarter,” Nile sarcastically replies.

Booker lets out a brusque noise of agreement. “How’d your cover get blown?”

Nile shakes her head in disbelief. “Didn’t realize the real mill inspector was here 18 hours before I showed up. Along with the fact that an inspection never happened because said shit-for-brains inspector took a big ‘ole bribe. What about you?”

Booker sucks at his teeth for a moment. “Apparently, even international reporters have backed off the exposé articles of this hellhole on account of so many of them going missing or getting threatened. I came in too bold.”

“So we’re both idiots then?”

“We have our moments, _oui,”_ Booker shoots her an amused look. There’s admittedly no point since they can’t really see each other on account of the darkness.

While Nile finds the dried blood on her face and trailing down her chest is annoying, it does a decent job of covering up the fact that she heals so quickly after the blows she took from the security guards once her cover was blown by the mill CEO, one Joaquin Möller. The force of her connecting with the floor when they tossed her into the makeshift prison ripped up her jeans and the skin along her knees and palms. They’re healed, of course. Even if the blood still stains her clothes.

At the same time, Booker is eminently grateful that Möller’s men didn’t get depraved with her during her questioning before they dragged her into the storage room a day ago. He shudders at the mere thought of them taking it any further. No matter that he’s in worse condition. His clothes officially smell since he’s been locked in for nearly three days. His hair starting to get greasy, his skin is dry and crusty as hell.

When it comes to technology, Booker’s memories tend to operate on a Before Running Water versus After Running Water timeline. Unlike his older brethren, the majority of his lifetime has been spent in a world of high-quality potable water. _Hot_ potable water. Add in his time in Napoleon's forces during that bullshit Russia campaign filled with filth, disease and starvation? It’s why he’s never been nearly as acclimated to missions requiring time out in the field as the others.

Recreational camping can fuck right off for the same reasons. Who the fuck wants to play-act at ye olden days any damn way? Running, hot water free of cholera, lead and other diseases or toxic elements. Electric coffee makers. Mattresses made with memory foam originally designed _by NASA_ for the space shuttle. Central heat and air systems for constant temperature control. He'll take it all and then some.

So yeah, he really despises being unwashed and smelling pretty rank.

The only decent part is that they seem to be held in an old locker room of some sort. There’s a working toilet stall in the far corner and a row of metal lockers on either side of the door. Both of them have tried breaking the sink off from the wall to use it and its metal pipe as a weapon next time the door opens. Sure, they’re both immortal. That doesn’t mean they have enhanced strength or stamina. That damn sink is basically welded to the wall. As is the toilet.

Nile bangs her head back against the brick wall behind them in frustration and lets out a curse. “They need to just shoot us in here already.”

Booker disagrees with a bump of his knee to hers. “We would come back too quick and that'd be a problem. So, so much of a serious _problem."_

"Fine," Nile blows out a deep breath, "Let’s see how this plays out. SERE it is, I guess.” Booker silently nods in approval.

 _Survival. Evasion. Resistance. Escape_ was the basis of the acronym. It was the standard protocol the U.S. Military used to train troops when it came to dealing with getting downed behind enemy lines. Nile went through it a literal lifetime ago. But her missions for the family meant she maintained readiness in that regard. 

Booker glances at their discarded handcuffs in front of them. They were both limber enough to slide their shackled wrists under their behinds and legs to get them in front of themselves. Each of them also carried a hidden lock pick kit. Problem is, the door locks from outside, so it’s impossible to get out of the windowless room.

Without warning, the door’s kicked open and a dozen goons dressed in the same black paramilitary gear as before descend on the two of them. Booker and Nile have the element of surprise since the assholes don’t realize they’re out of their cuffs. It results in a couple of them getting killed with their bare hands. Another three are completely incapacitated with what will be permanent, life-altering injuries. Yet the immortals are still outnumbered and lose the battle

They’re dragged literally kicking and screaming out of the storeroom. To the point where they’re both knocked out due to being so troublesome.

Looks like it’s going to be another long day.

* * *

Booker wakes first, yanked to consciousness to find himself handcuffed again. He’s lying splayed out on the cold metal floor of something. A truck? Probably, judging by all the bumping and jarring from the swaying motion of whatever he’s in. There’s also the muffled thrum of what sounds to be an engine.

Eyes darting around, he sees the dull black combat boots of whoever he’s surrounded by. There’s more than three, so he has no guarantee he can fight them all off and escape. Not to mention, there’s no way in hell he’s leaving Nile behind.

He lays stock still. He doesn’t know if they supposedly killed him when they knocked him out or not. His Portuguese isn’t the best either. He can barely make out what the nearly ten or so different voices are chattering about back and forth. Then again, he can’t suppress a grunt of pain when one of the jackboots digs his boot into his ribs.

“You are up!” he guffaws in heavily accented English.

Apparently, they didn’t attempt to kill him previously.

Booker lets out an annoyed sigh as he slowly rolls over to his back to find himself under the patterned green fatigue canopy of a military style transport truck. It’s made especially evident by how the black-clad goons sit squeezed up against each other on benches on either side of him. There are ten of them, seated five by five. Heavily armed, they don’t even bother to look at him as he groans and shifts to fully awake. Not even as he bolts upward into a sitting position.

He wildly looks around for Nile until he dimly realizes she’s crumpled at his feet. Her hands are once again handcuffed behind her, her head bloodied.

“Get _the fuck_ off of me!” Booker snarls when they wrestle him back from sliding over to check on her. 

He freezes, holding his breath to suppress a terrified noise of apprehension when they suddenly press the barrel of a pistol to the side of her head. It'd be best if they didn't kill her or him at the moment. The risk of their revival from death in front of so many witnesses is too high. Booker doesn’t even want to contemplate the sheer horror of Möller finding out. Between that and his human trafficking operation, it could be a Merrick situation all over again. This time, with the both of them getting sold to the highest bidder for research.

Fuckity _fuck_. With extra fucks scattered on top of all the fucks Booker gives.

He backs off and immediately goes silent. It seems to placate the assholes. For now, he can do nothing but bide his time as the truck bounces through what feels and sounds like rocky, forested terrain.

It’s a solid couple of hours before they stop. It takes three men to haul Booker out on account of him going limp to dead weight for the sake of being passive-aggressively difficult. Blessedly awake again, Nile is shoved out behind him. Both are marched for a half-hour into a densely forested area until a clearing is revealed beyond the bush. Turns out, they’re at the top of some sort of cliff.

 _Shit_ , Nile thinks, closing her eyes at the sight of it. She can only assume they won’t waste the ammo and instead toss them both over. They would've shot them already if that was the case.

She hates the falling deaths. That shit hurts like a motherfucker, as she found out the hard way from the Merrick incident so long ago.

Joaquin Möller has served as the CEO of PazMadeira Logging Company for nearly a decade. Of medium height and middle age with a stocky build, on account of the hot humidity of the region, he’s dressed in linen pants and a white button-down shirt. A light-colored Panama hat shields his wavy salt and pepper hair from the sun. His ruggedly handsome, tanned face hides the cunning monster behind it. Wide green eyes bereft of any warmth, his mouth constantly seems to be twisted with some sort of private joke.

While they have a few licenses for logging rights, his lumber mill near Santarém is completely illegal. It serves as a cover for the human trafficking. Even then, that's the tip of the iceberg under his reign at PazMadeira. Murder, bribery of the local government and dumping tons of toxic wood treatment byproduct into the surrounding ecosystem should be enough to wipe out the company. Neither Nile nor Booker has any issue being the lynchpin to move everything forward.

Now, Möller stands in the clearing on the edge of the cliff surrounded by his paramilitary thugs. Silent for a long while, he’s like a feckless king holding court. Nile assumes the silence is to build the tension and strike even more fear into her and Booker.

Honestly? She’s fucking over it.

“Christ on high,” she grouses and rolls her eyes, “Can't you just go and fuck yourself already?”

Booker’s grinding laugh at her insult earns him getting shoved to the ground and kicked multiple times by Möller’s mercenaries at the same time Möller throws back his head with a cackle. He even holds up a hand to stop his nearest goon from following up his backhand of her with a punch to her stomach.

"You know what, _bonita?"_ Möller gestures towards her with his cigarette. Taking a long pull from it, he lets out another chuckle.

Nile doesn't reply. Due to just taking the backhand only a few seconds ago, she's not quite healed up. Luckily, it allows her to spit a glob of blood at Möller. It lands on his crisp white shirt right across his chest. She likes to think it’s a prediction of where she’s going to make sure her next bullet lands.

Except they need him alive.

_Fuck._

Möller laughs while dramatically pushing his rolled sleeves further up his forearms. "This," he waves at his ruined shirt, "This right here is why I like you. You've got guts, I will give you that."

Booker glances between the two of them. Eyes narrowing, he's taking stock.

"And because I like you," Möller snickers, "I won't let you watch him die," he nods at Booker who is dragged back to his feet a few yards away from him.

"You expect me to thank you for that?" Nile growls while attempting to shove her way out of the grasps of the men it takes to hold her back.

"For my mercy?" Möller tilts his head in appraisal, "Yes, one would think a little gratefulness would be in order."

"Get _fucked,"_ she snarls.

"See you in hell, _senhorita."_

Much to Möller's disappointment, the woman doesn't scream or cry as three of his men shove her over the jagged side of the cliff. No pleas that she'll keep her mouth shut. No attempts to trade her body to him or his men to use and defile for reprieve. Hell, she fights them all the way to the edge.

The impact of her hitting the forest floor is the only sign she's dead. The animals will devour all evidence of her existence, simple as that.

Meanwhile, the other man who just witnessed her murder proves oddly silent. In fact, if Möller were a lesser sort, he'd flinch at the look of unadulterated hatred the other man sends his way. Good thing he's handcuffed and flanked by a small army of his mercenaries like the woman was.

Möller draws a cigarette from the gold case in his pocket. He lights it up while his attention sweeps over the remaining man. "No tears for your little girlfriend?" he sneers as he snaps closed his cigarette lighter.

Booker's teeth are tinged with blood from multiple punches to his face. His tan thermal shirt is wet and stained with blood as well. Despite that, Möller abruptly finds it odd that his features aren’t properly swollen. No broken nose. No cracked jaw. He doesn't even carry so much as a black eye. Come to think of it, he should be missing some of those said teeth from the sheer impact of his beating a few minutes before they tossed the woman.

Instead, the other man paints on a maniacal smile. Voice deathly calm, he swears, "I'll see her in the next life, _fils de pute."_

Möller snickers, the sound low and cruel. "I have no idea what that last part translates to," he takes a long drag on his cigarette before he blows out a stream of smoke. "But I'm sure it's creative," he winks.

_"Va te faire foutre."_

"Again," Möller shrugs, "No one here understands that shit."

The other man rolls his eyes before they land on Möller again. "Can I get one last smoke?" he asks, hanging his head in apparent defeat.

Möller eyes him before pulling out another cigarette. _"Claro, amigo."_

He lights it as he strolls over to him. But instead of setting it in between Booker's lips, he takes his cigarette out of his own mouth and proceeds to casually dig the lit side of it into the Frenchman's face. All while puffing away on the new one.

Booker releases a snarling yell of pain, jolting in his cuffs. The other men cackle at the sight. The one closest to him hauls a vicious kick to the back of his legs, forcing him to drop to his knees.

Booker looks up at them, vengeful gaze dripping with a guarantee of violence. _"Je ferai de tes derniers jours une angoisse. Je le jure sur mon coeur,"_ he coldly promises. Möller's grin of reply only causes Booker to repeat it even louder.

Möller waves at his goon who's kicked Booker down to his knees. _"Você pode atirar nele,"_ he orders.

The gunshot echoes in the rainforest. Booker crumbles to the ground. The fresh bullet hole in his head leaks a wash of blood as his sightless eyes stare upward at the overcast sky.

"Get rid of him too," Möller sharply nods to the cliff edge.

And with that, Booker joins Nile at the bottom of the ravine.

* * *

" _Merde,_ sorry I killed you," Booker sheepishly says, "But I was dead before they tossed me over."

"Did you really have to land _right_ on top of me, though?" Nile arches an incredulous brow. Hands on her hips, she stares up at the cliff. "You reached terminal velocity, judging by its height."

"You could have…moved?" he guiltily retorts.

"My spine was still fusing back together and I feel like my brain was barely sensory!" she throws up her hands. "Like you’ve said, the bigger injuries take way longer to heal."

He gives her shoulder an affectionate squeeze as he replies, "I'll aim a little more to the left next time, _d'accord?_ "

 _"Tu ferais mieux,"_ she swats him across the arm. “By the way, you owe me dinner for that after this is all over. Not shitty take-out either,” she points an accusing finger at him.

Booker lets out a laugh while reaching out to shake on it. “Deal.”

“It wasn’t a request,” she grins, returning his handshake.

“ _Someone’s_ bossy today,” he teases.

“Like you don’t love it.”

Before he can step away, Nile suddenly pulls him into a hard hug. He immediately wraps his arms around her waist and drops his nose into her curls. They stand there for a long while, Nile struggling to control her breathing. Booker languidly smooths his hand along her hair and up and down her back. As her eyes slide shut, her ear at his chest focuses on the steady, strong beat of his heart. It grounds her. Along with how he quietly pours words of comfort into her ear in his native language. Cocooned against him as he rocks her back and forth, nothing matters except for him so near to her.

He knows that no matter how many times one dies, the idea that this may be the time you don’t come back still lingers in your worst thoughts. It fucks with you, even if she’s been at this for nearly a century now.

“Falling deaths always suck,” she grumbles into his neck.

Booker withdraws only to gently cradle her face in his hands. “Thought stabbings were your worst enemy, _chouchou?”_ his sea blue gaze searches her with intense concern.

She inhales a few times before shakily replying, “They’re usually way quicker and I’m used to how they feel now. Taking a long leap is still so rare that I…forget sometimes.”

“It's okay,” he hums in agreement, pulling her back into his arms, "I have you...let it all out, hmm?"

He doesn’t let go until he feels her tug at his sleeve. Even as he backs away, he drops both hands to her shoulders. “Sure you're good Nile?”

She slowly nods. “Thanks.” However, she reaches up to grasp his forearm. “What about you? They were sadistic assholes to you too, Booker.”

He places two fingers against his temple where they shot him and drops his thumb down like he’s firing an imaginary gun. The blend of blood and gunpowder remaining on his skin is a stark reminder. “It was extremely quick, considering-”

“Still doesn’t make it hurt any less,” she gives him a comforting pat, “Even if we keep living.”

He arches a brow and recalls how he said something similar when they first met; _just because we keep living doesn’t mean we stop hurting._

“Least I stayed dead through the fall instead of coming back to life in the middle of it. See?” he smirks at her, “Killing you really wasn’t my fault at all. So I can’t say I regret it.”

Her laugh is like music to his ears as she lightly smacks his side. “C’mon, dumbass,” she looks up at the early afternoon sun, “We should go. Got a long trek ahead of us.”

He backs away and waves a magnanimous arm at her while taking a deep bow. “As _mademoiselle_ wishes.” She actually giggles at that. He can't say he doesn't cherish the sound of it.

Their clothes are torn to bits from their journey into the ravine. It’s also going to take at least a solid day-long hike to double back uphill and make it back to Möller’s criminal lumber mill in the middle of the rainforest. While they’re both ex-military, Nile’s training is the most recent as far as surviving in the wild. Neither of them have a compass on them either. Luckily, they’re knowledgeable enough to use the sun to navigate during the day and the stars at night. It’s tough going, with very little food and fresh water.

As much as they both want to blow the lumber mill to hell, they remind each other it's imperative they locate where they're keeping the people they're trafficking. It has to be somewhere on the premises.

This mission is a personal one to Copley the Third. His husband is of the indigenous Munduruku tribes and grew up in this very region. He’s heard rumors for years from family and friends about Joaquin Möller’s operations. Sure, Copley the Third’s spouse has zero clue about the immortals’ true natures due to Copley working under the guise of being a simple military contractor. That in no way stopped Copley himself from taking up his beloved’s crusade. The rest of them could find no more honorable reason for such an assignment. Except Nile was only supposed to be on recon before the others joined her. Unfortunately, things quickly spun out of control.

For Booker, he harbors a special hatred for anything that harms children. He’s also heard the rumors of Möller’s true nature during the last few years he's spent in Rio.

Since the last election a couple of years ago, the new government administration made a commitment to reversing the environmental damage done by previous presidents. It was currently doing a passable job on sticking to its campaign promises. At the same time, their policies have also caused some companies to burrow themselves even deeper underground. Combined with the fact that large chunks of the Amazon are still relatively impenetrable and with little communication flowing into major cities, it makes sense how PazMadeira continues to take advantage of a lack of complete oversight.

For months, Booker’s cultivated his sources while digging deeper into his research of the company. It led to him pulling up even more disturbing allegations from the dark web. Combined with how his eventual mole at the mill fed everything to him via burner phone calls and heavily encrypted data drops? His worst suspicions were confirmed. Only after the mole sent proof that she managed to escape the mill a few days ago did he start his mission.

During Nile’s pre-mission briefing, Copley the Third relayed that the local Munduruku tribe who live in the area insist that the mill is the key to exposing the full extent of Möller’s and PazMadeira’s crimes. So she and Booker both need Möller alive. Mostly because he has a bounty out on him with the Munduruku. Nile intends to collect and turn him over. Booker sees absolutely no argument with that as well.

Since their aliases got them both “killed” the first time, Nile and Booker storm the lumbermill on this go around.

It’s hand to hand combat to infiltrate. They swipe the semi-automatic guns along with a handful of flashbang and concussive grenades from the mercs they’ve killed so far. Overall, fighting their way to Möller’s back office is going better than expected. Mostly on account of the guards being terrified at the two ghosts who have inexplicably reappeared to take their vengeance.

Booker’s dark sense of humor even has him toss a couple of guards who kill Nile into the log mulcher to their right. She can't help wincing at the sight of it. Going through one of those has now been added to her top five ways of how _not_ to die.

A floor down from Möller's office, Nile tosses a concussive grenade and stabs the guard standing closest to her through the throat. It takes her an additional few seconds to unload an entire magazine of bullets into the three other ones behind her. Their body armor doesn’t save them, her shots hitting their heads and thighs.

She then gracefully ducks to allow Booker to take out the three guards running towards them. As soon as his gun clicks empty, he throws it away with one hand while snatching out of midair the sidearm Nile tosses up to him from a dead goon on the floor. They spin around back to back in one fluid motion to pop a volley of shots into the new stream of mercenaries closing in on them from either side of the hallway.

Hearing the tell-tale metallic clink of a flashbang being armed, Booker mindlessly kicks it right past them and into the group of mercs behind them. As it explodes, he uses their panic to finish them off. All at the same time, Nile produces a knife from somewhere and hurls it into the chest of a second guard right next to the thrower of the flashbang. Followed up with closely situated shots to his head, Mr. Flashbang goes down for the count as well.

"Remind me to never get on your bad side ever again,” Booker salutes from his brow as they blast through the top floor of the facility.

“See, now you’re finally learning.” Her determined retort is made even more visceral by the blood spatter soaked through her tank top.

Lucky for them, Möller’s got too much ego to eat a bullet when they locate him huddling under his desk in his office. His hail of bullets does cut down Nile since she’s the first one through the door. She really wishes she had the strength to throw up her middle finger at him as she dies on the floor at his feet.

Her eyes flutter open upon her resuscitation to find Booker crouched over her. He’s cradling her head, his other hand protectively resting on her stomach.

 _“Je suis content de te revoir_ ,” he airily declares despite his worried expression.

“I’m touched,” she retorts. Wincing at the feel of her body sealing closed the last bullet holes, she looks over to see the spent, bloody slugs on the floor. “By the way,” she moves to her feet with a groan, "You can take point next time.”

Booker smirks and waggles his brows at her at the same time Möller lets out a piercing shriek of horror. Nile turns her head to see the asshole handcuffed to his own office chair. The lumber tycoon is roughed up a bit, with lacerations across his face and a black eye.

“I-I killed you two _bastardos!”_ Möller’s mouth gapes open and close in disbelief. Like a fish choking for water, he’s starting to hyperventilate. Even as he spits at Nile’s feet and howls, “Especially the bitch-”

His head snaps back at Booker’s abrupt backhand.

“No _,”_ Booker hisses, eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. _“No,”_ he flatly says, leaning down and holding up a finger of warning. "Speak ill of her again and it will be just you, me and my very long and vivid memory of what you did to the both of us as your only company when it comes to how best for me to dole out my vengeance. _”_

Sure, Nile knows she can defend herself just fine. Booker's well aware of that too and has never questioned her on that front. It still doesn’t take away her delight of his intolerance for anyone who tries to come at her.

Meanwhile, Möller appears to be running on a disastrous cocktail of terror, adrenaline and sheer, unadulterated panic. “DEAD!” he screeches, “Both of you… _dead!_ My eyes do not lie…t-twice…I…I just fucking _saw it!”_

“Did you now?” Nile cocks her head to the side. “I don’t remember that. You remember that?” she jerks her head towards Booker. No matter the stark contrast of her blood and the bullet holes against the white of her tank top.

“Nope,” he pops the “P” at the end of the word. “But I’m sure he’ll remember this.” With that, he shoots Möller squarely in the knee.

They wait for the man’s screams of agony to die down to blubbering whines before Nile pouts. “I thought I got first dibs on him?”

Booker shrugs and checks his gun’s magazine. “He has two knees, you know.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right.” Turning to face Möller, her eyes are blazing despite how she sweetly smiles, "Lucky for you, we need you alive." With that, she soundly smacks him upside his head before adding, "Though the contract didn't stipulate that you have to be all in one piece."

"No, _ma belle,_ " Booker drawls, casually twirling around in his hand a bayonet he's filched from one of the dead mercs, "It wasn't that specific. Not in the least."

Neither of them are in the mood to haul Möller out on their backs if both his legs don’t work. But him thinking they'll take out his other knee, various limbs and perhaps even his eyes, ears and nose speeds up their questioning of him since he rapidly reveals where he’s keeping his trafficking victims. It’s in the subterranean level via a trapdoor hidden at the back of the factory.

They escort the CEO out to one of his security forces’ jeeps at gunpoint. Booker uses his lockpicking kit to break the locks to all the car doors from the outside so that they can’t be opened from the inside. Nile ties up Möller and they leave him slumped in the back seat. She then radios her contact as they head back to free the prisoners. 

Before they do, Nile uses the phone in Möller’s office to check in with Joe, Nicky and Quynh on one of their burner phones since she’s been missing for 24 hours. Her original assignment was limited to just recon before the others were scheduled to fly in from Belém so they could finish the job together. Except things went sideways rather quickly.

“I promise that I’m in one piece,” she assures Joe for what feels like the millionth time. Booker snickers but makes sure he’s far enough away so they can’t hear him on the other side of the line. “I just have to…wrap up some things before I check in again, that’s all…no, _no_...I’m not _lying,_ thank you very much!” she exclaims. “It’s fine, it’s _fiiiine,_ ” she insists.

There’s another five more minutes of Joe’s worrying followed by him handing off the phone to Nicky. The Genoese makes increasingly loud noises of distress in between his cross examination of her before Nile hears Quynh wrestling the phone from him. She proceeds to pepper Nile with a barrage of questions about her current state. A solid chunk of them are expounded on in the background by Joe and Nicky.

It takes Nile another 20 minutes before she swiftly bids them all goodbye and hangs up. Closing her eyes and throwing her head back, she lets out an annoyed sigh.

“Remind me to teach you how to be better at verbal deception,” Booker guffaws as he tosses her a freshly reloaded rifle and sidearm. “Because I am truly mortified by how bad you are at it when you’re outside of missions. My heart?” he dramatically smacks his hand to his chest, “It _hurts_ with embarrassment. I think I may have even died a little of it.”

“Shut the fuck up, _Booker,”_ Nile retorts with a fleeting grin. It only causes him to laugh even louder. “Let’s finish this, already” she marches out of the office.

They locate the trap door and descend the ladder down to the subterranean level. Booker shoots off the lock of a pair of double doors right in front of them. They cautiously move forward with him taking point.

The fetid smell hits the both of them as they swing open the doors and they find themselves gagging at the odor of the human stench that emanates. There are nearly a hundred people trapped within the warehouse area. Most of them are children, with many no older than teens. Filthy, military surplus looking cots are lined up in haphazard rows. A few of the people are even handcuffed to them. Some of them are so thin that they’re nothing but skin over bones. There’s only one bathroom at the back of the room and it reeks.

The halogen lights above are too bright and neither Booker nor Nile see any light switches to turn them off. Which means these people likely have no sense of day or night due to the lack of windows. The constant hum of the HVAC system is relentless as well. The rough concrete floor is so cold that both Nile and Booker can feel it through their boots. Yet only thin, worn and holey blankets look to be provided to the prisoners and none of them have any shoes. 

Most of them barely have the energy to look up at the two of them as they enter. Those that do start shivering and protectively covering their faces and bodies with weakened arms. Some curl into themselves, struggling to make themselves appear smaller. Combined with their pained groans and cries, it all speaks of the expectation of violence.

Booker’s seething as he swiftly lowers his gun. His blood feels like it’s going to boil right out of his skin. So many children, _too_ many children. Fuck it, no matter the age of any of the people they’re saving, this entire wretched situation makes him want to murder Möller with his bare hands. As painfully and as drawn out as mortally possible. The fact that the local Munduruku have their bounty on the CEO is the only thing that stops Booker from rushing out to the jeep to kill the bastard. It is they who deserve their vengeance on Möller. His violation of them, their land and their sovereignty for all these years demands it. Even worse is how the outside world has all but ignored their plight.

“H-holy _shit,”_ Nile’s voice quivers next to him, high and disturbed. She’s nearly frozen though she gradually lowers her gun. “This is…” she stammers, “I haven’t ever seen…such a… _big_ operation. My _God._ ” 

Booker completely understands her shocked dismay. No matter that she's well over 100 years old now, it doesn’t take away from witnessing how terrible people can be to each other.

Moving to stand in front of her to block her view as much as possible, Booker wills himself to remain calm for her sake. “It’s a tough sight for _all_ of us, Nile,” he whispers, “As it always should be. If you ever become jaded to this sort of thing? Yeah, you’ve lost the plot. Trust me on that one.”

He tentatively drops a steady hand over how her own hand trembles around the gun at her side. Gently removing it, he replaces it with a walkie-talkie he’s picked up from one of the mercenaries. “You said your contact is on a secure channel, _oui?”_ he mildly says, purposely keeping his voice firm. “How about you head back up top and check to see when they’re due to arrive here? We can’t evacuate all of these people on our own, right?”

Nile silently shakes her head even as her eyes continue darting around at the ghastly scene in front of them. Booker physically turns her around and lightly pushes her out of the doors. He carefully watches as she sluggishly climbs the ladder back up to the mill’s main floor. Not until he hears her haltingly make contact with her liaison does he go back to gathering up the others. His Portuguese is good enough to calm them down and heard them outside of the doors. He then climbs back up the ladder to wait and act as lookout.

It takes roughly a half-hour before he sees Nile coming towards him from across the floor with a couple of dozen men and women. In civilian clothes, they are still heavily armed. After Nile confirms that these are the Munduruku and her contacts, Booker drops back down the trapdoor. He starts sending people up the ladder to their salvation. He gladly hauls those who lack the strength for the climb up the ladder on his back.

He soon rejoins Nile. She looks slightly recovered from earlier, but only just so.

“Turns out Copley’s husband’s suspicions were right and most of them are locals,” she nods over to where the prisoners are being talked to in comforting, hushed tones by the Munduruku. A few of them are already wrapped in blankets. The worst off are lying on the floor being checked out, mended up and treated by a handful of tribesmen and women with medical kits. “They’re gonna take care and look after all of them.”

“What about that Möller prick?” Booker angrily growls.

“I’ve already turned him over to them,” Nile determinedly replies.

Booker certainly can’t argue with that. “What will happen to him?”

Nile’s flash of a fierce grin is a welcome return back to some sense of normalcy. “Oh, I’m sure they’ll get their justice on him and then some. The less we know on that front, the better…we should go,” she stiffly moves towards the parking lot. Booker follows her without question.

When she reaches one of the PazMadeira security jeeps, she turns to listlessly stand on the driver’s side. Arms crossed, she’s staring at the ground. Not until Booker’s standing right in front of her does she look up. She scrunches up her nose before muttering, “Sorry I shut down like that earlier.”

“Absolutely nothing to apologize for,” he effortlessly replies.

She swallows before shaking her head in disagreement. “I should have been better prepped-”

“How?” Booker soothes. “The mission is a complete success. None of the prisoners are injured beyond how we found them. Möller’s being dealt with by the people he’s violated all these years. We’re both still here and alive,” he counts off on his fingers. “C’mon, kiddo,” he takes her hand to give her a brief squeeze of reassurance, “Couldn’t ask for a better debrief, right?”

She manages to look up at him, expression slightly less dejected.

An idea rapidly occurs to him. “Hey,” he softly says, “How about you check in with the others again? Bet they’ll want to know how you pulled off things here now that you’re done?” he bumps her arm with hers. “You go grab a satellite phone from one of your contacts. They’re bound to have one all the way out here in the middle of the jungle. Meantime, I’ll go find an unmarked jeep to get started and drive us out of here when you’re done.”

Nile seems to silently agree, jogging back over to the mill.

While Booker hot wires an unmarked jeep, Nile once again calls Quynh, Joe and Nicky using the satellite phone. She confirms that she’s completed the mission beyond her original recon directive. Joe’s joyful whoops accompanied by Nicky’s enthusiastic applause in the background has her face slowly looking brighter, much to Booker’s relief. Her melancholy appears to lessen even more as Quynh proudly says, “You have shown yourself exemplary in your deeds, _cục vàng,_ as you have many times before. We await your arrival home to us.”

“You look better,” Booker opens the passenger side door for her when she comes back from returning the phone after she gets off the call.

She shrugs, looking abashed. “They’re pretty proud of me, apparently.”

“As they should be,” Booker quickly smiles as he climbs behind the wheel. “Now,” he says as he peels out of the parking lot, “Let’s get the hell out of this accursed place.”

That suits Nile just fine.

* * *

Booker glances down and lets out a low whistle as they drive back to Nile’s hotel. “Christ, I look like shit,” he waves at himself and his bloody, bullet hole ridden clothes. “Hell, we both do.”

He ducks Nile’s attempt to playfully flick the side of his head with her fingers. His relief is palpable as her usual lighthearted tone greets him. “Speak for yourself. I always look like a million damn bucks.”

“Oh, always,” he glances over, “In monopoly money? _Oui bien sûr.”_

“Fuck off,” Nile shoots back with a tired giggle that speaks of punchy exhaustion. He doesn’t manage to dodge her second flick to him.

As they pull up into the driveway of her hotel, Booker can’t suppress a worn-out sigh. “You should come up and get cleaned up,” Nile offhandedly says, “It’ll make you look less suspicious. And gross,” she wrinkles her nose. He grunts in affirmation and keeps driving to park the jeep in the garage.

Luck is on their side; there’s no one in the lobby to see their battered and bloodied selves. Regardless, Booker repeatedly stabs his finger on the elevator button to call it down faster. It finally dings and Nile leads him to her room.

“Please,” he waves at the bathroom, “You shower first.”

Nile lets out a deep, tired exhale. Still, she replies, “You sure?”

“Come now, I am always a gentleman,” he smoothly retorts.

“That’s a lie and we both know it,” a sort of half-giggle sounding thing comes out of her. She blames her fatigue rather than his sentiment. “But thank you, Jesus,” she groans in relief as he sinks down onto the bed and clicks on the television. Mercifully, there’s nothing on the news concerning Möller’s demise as the sound of running water wafts in from the bathroom.

After a while, Booker feels himself being roused awake where he’s nodded off slouched against the headboard. His hand instinctively snaps to his waistband for a gun that’s not there until he realizes it’s just Nile. “Your turn for the shower,” she softly says.

She’s wearing one of the hotel bathrobes and her hair is wrapped up in a towel. He tries not to stare as he hightails it to the bathroom.

He appreciates the hot water beating down on his bloody skin. Watching as the dirty pink liquid washes down the drain, he allows himself to loiter. The scent of the hotel soap and body wash proves surprisingly lush. The hot water doesn’t run out either.

Finishing up, drying down a bit and wrapping a towel around his waist, he wanders out of the bathroom to find Nile digging through her backpack where it sits on the edge of the bed. After a while, she locates her phone. Popping in her wireless headphones, she starts scrolling through it.

“You sure you want to stay in a hotel so close to the scene of the crime?” He hopes his voice sounds casual as he towels off his hair. “My place is at least a half hour away.”

“You’ve been here in town for that long?” she asks without looking up.

He shrugs. “Less suspicious than breezing into somewhere and abruptly having an entire operation in the rainforest get blown to hell. All before its CEO disappears, an incriminating article is set to go to press and digital documents are delivered to multiple oversight committees. Oh, and nearly a hundred missing persons are found."

“Hmm,” she thoughtfully replies. “Well, when you put it that way…” she trails off at only just now looking up to see his half naked and still wet form standing across the room in front of her.

Nile was terrified and running scared when Andy took her in the aftermath of her first death. There were more questions than answers when she initially met Booker and the others. Sure, he was hot and she wasn’t blind. But so were the rest of them, very much so. So much so that he sort of faded into the background of their collective attractiveness.

When Andy left them in that cave in Bosnia, he was the most honest with her about the price she’d have to pay for her newfound immortality. Not that the others lied or deceived her at all. They just didn’t have a chance to explain all of it after Copley and Merrick kidnapped Joe and Nicky and hunted them down. Yet the first chance afforded him, Booker laid it all out. Exposed his anguish in how his blood family slipped through his fingers and he couldn’t do a fucking thing about it. No matter the power in the ability to live nearly endless lifetimes.

_Why us?_

_Yeah…that way madness lies._

_I thought you were the brains of this outfit._

_Tell you what I do wonder is…why you? And why now?_

It’s why she understood how he pushed himself to betray the rest of them.

There was no denying everything went to shit directly because of his fuck-up. Nile didn’t agree with his choice. She absolutely saw why the others mete out their punishment. And it was an absolutely fair price for him to pay. Like Andy told the rest of them when they left him in London, he hoped for less but expected more. Without it, he likely wouldn’t have changed during the near century they constantly found each other in their travels across the globe.

Now here he stands in front of her. Gorgeously half naked. All with that infinitely clever look in his bright, azure eyes that scorches through her. She abruptly realizes that it’s never wavered. Not even at their lowest point in Dakar.

“Uh, Nile?” Booker repeats again, wrenching her thoughts back to the present. Tossing the towel he’s dried his hair with on the bed, he waves back and forth in front of her face. “You still there?”

She’s infinitely grateful that he can’t see her blush on account of the deep, rich tone of her skin. She mentally sends up a prayer to her ancestors for the glorious gift of melanin as she finally manages to tear her eyes away from the wonderfully built, broad-shouldered vision in front of her. Abruptly jumping up from her chair in the corner of the room, she babbles out, “You have a good idea.”

She’s looking everywhere except for directly at him. Busying her fluttering hands is of the utmost importance right now. So she starts stuffing her things into her duffle bag. Yes, that’s a distraction. It’s perfect.

Except it’s _not_.

She can see out the corner of her eye how the asshole has the nerve to cross his arms while still taking her in. It only makes his biceps and forearms look even more toned.

Awesome.

This old-world, smartass of a white boy is going to be the death of her.

Can one die from having too many orgasms in a row? Like, actually have a heart attack and stroke out? She sure in the fuck wouldn’t mind putting that hypothesis to the test with him. After all, his French brethren call it _la petite mort_ or "the little death" as it so aptly translates to. Admittedly, death by orgasm never entered her mind before this very moment.

Maybe she should check with Joe and Nicky first? Perhaps that'd actually happened between them? They could be pretty damn noisy together in the smaller safehouses. Besides, it's not like they can be pissed at her being with him in this specific situation. She technically had no idea he was taking down the Möller operation at the same time Copley the Third sent her the case file. It’s not like she planned any of this.

She must have let out a hysterical giggle without realizing it. For Booker is suddenly less than a foot away from her. His big, warm hand falls to her forearm, stopping her from dumping her bag of toiletries indiscriminately into her duffle bag. She hasn’t even checked to see if their caps are properly screwed on.

Speaking of screwing…

She glances up and plasters a smile on her face. “Your place!” she brightly says.

Why does it sound so strangled in her ears?!

“What about it?” his mouth quirks upward. Right at the same time, she swears his eyes slightly drop to take in how her robe has loosened. Low-key ogling really shouldn’t look that damn good on him.

This French _fuck._

“I mean…going there…to your place. We should go? I’m dressing…yeah, I‘m getting dressed…right? To go to your place… _yes._ ”

She doesn’t see Booker’s lopsided smile as she turns her back to him to grab another pair of sneakers off the floor next her. He’s afforded an award-winning view of her behind as he languidly replies, “Works for me. I’ll go get dressed as well.”

She rapidly blinks before sluggishly replying, “Yeah…you do that...Book.”

Thankfully he doesn’t strip down right then and there, instead retreating to the bathroom. By the time he gets out, she’s fully dressed and packed. Making use of the blow dryer, the coils of her hair are newly twisted down. He silently takes her duffel bag as she tosses her backpack over her shoulder. She then sweeps the room one last time for any leftover items that can be traced back to them.

Since he's still in the same bloodied and ragged clothing, Booker sneaks out of the lobby to avoid being seen and packs up the jeep in the garage. Meanwhile, Nile checks out. Within five minutes, they’re on the road. The silence heavy between them, Nile vainly tries to ignore it by studiously taking in everything out of the window on her side of the car. 

Booker’s third floor studio walk-up is located in the working-class section of town. “Bathroom's at the back of the house,” he tosses his keys on the kitchen counter. He quickly spins around to disable the security system using the pin pad next to the door. “Everything’s in working order, don’t worry,” he adds.

Neat and clean, the apartment is devoid of the expected half empty bottles of liquor, scattered boxes and cans of barely eaten food. There’s a full-size stove and refrigerator that look like a vintage icebox and range. Regardless, they both work like modern appliances. The cherrywood flooring is freshly polished and shining. Two brown leather club chairs make up the living room area. They face a large, flatscreen hologram TV screwed into the wall. Next to the chairs sits a wooden lacquered folding screen painted with a cheery garden scene. It serves as the room divider.

The bronze, wrought iron frame bed behind it holds a thick, queen-sized mattress. Sheets and blankets are haphazardly across it, but they look clean. Above the bed is pair of double hung windows. Their white trim contrasts with the red brick wall. The only thing looking out of place is the large, square, dropleaf dining table. It takes up most of the space between the chairs and TV.

Nile nods in approval as she walks back to him after giving the place a once-over. “It’s legit cute in here.” She sniffs the air and shoots him a look of amazement. “Clean too? Woooow,” she turns to give him a teasing smile, “Who are you trying to impress, Booker?”

“Ha, fucking _ha,”_ he rolls his eyes. However, its rapidly followed by his proud grin. Picking up her duffel bag and relieving her of her backpack, he carefully sets both on the bed. Mostly on account of the weapons he knows are in them. “Enjoy it while it lasts. I’m on a plane out of here tomorrow," he announces. "Last month of rent is already paid and settled.”

"Uh-huh," Nile tiredly mumbles in reply.

Realizing she hasn't had a hot meal in days between getting captured, their hike through the Amazon and then raiding the mill, Booker quickly orders food.

(Nile reiterates he still owes her a real, sit-down dinner for accidentally killing her and that this one most certainly doesn’t count. _”Je sais je sais. La prochaine fois, je te promets,”_ he insists)

Meanwhile, Nile changes into her sleeping clothes in the bathroom since the sun’s been down for a while. Booker tries to not stare like a horny creep when she emerges in cutely patterned sleep shorts and a tank top. She finds herself doing the same when he returns in a snug t-shirt and loose pajama bottoms.

They wolf down their food when it arrives while watching the news. There’s still not a single story on Möller, the people they freed or PazMadeira Company. It’s the best outcome as far as they’re concerned. Because it'll all explode into a scandal once they're out of the country and their contacts have all the evidence they need to bring down the company.

When they're done, Booker gathers the empty food boxes and cleans up. He then disappears behind the room divider to straighten out the sheets and blankets on the bed. When he emerges, he carefully taps Nile on the arm where she's dozed in one of the chairs. She slowly wakes to him leaning over her with a look she can’t quite decipher.

”You should get some rest,” he insists and points her towards the bed.

She stumbles to her feet, nearly running into him. Only her honed reflexes stop her from falling over before she shuffles off behind the room divider. Booker’s at her heels, watching with concern as she all but collapses into bed.

Before he announces he’s going to sleep on one of the chairs or the floor, she waves him over. “We’re both bone-tired,” she drones out. “Plus, no one deserves to spend the night on that clean but hard-ass floor,” she loudly yawns.

"Well when you put it that way," he coughs back a chuckle.

He initially hesitates only to silently nod and slip under the sheets when she yanks them down even more. When he stops moving around to get comfortable lying on his back, she rolls over to rest her head on his shoulder.

“You’re nice ‘n warm,” she mutters before her eyes slide closed. With that, she’s out like a light on top of him. Booker soon drifts off as well.

* * *

Booker is eased awake the next morning by Nile curling herself around him in her sleep. Eyes fluttering open, he takes in how they’ve ended up face to face.

Nile’s steady breathing a pleasant tickle at his throat, she's lying on her side facing him. The silk scarf wrapped around her fluffy, coiled twists is soft against his skin where her head rests in the crook of his neck. She sleeps on one hand with her other arm pressed up against his chest. His own arm draped around her waist, their legs are intertwined as well.

For the first time in years, he feels well rested. Like he could roll out of bed and slay dragons if she asked it of him.

He tries to lie as still as possible to soak up the moment. Unfortunately, Nile is an early riser. He does appreciate how she doesn’t bolt upward. Or shove him away in revulsion. It’s a languid process of her shifting awake, nuzzling herself against him and then stretching her graceful limbs with a loud yawn that he shouldn’t find so damn cute.

“Morning,” her greeting is muffled against his arm, “What time s’it?”

He refuses to get out of bed. Rolling over to his other side, he checks his cell on the nightstand. “Barely halfway past six,” he rumbles. Nile makes a sniffling noise that warms his shoulder. He closes his eyes as he assures her, “I have nothing to do all day before my flight out early tonight…you can go back to sleep if you wish.”

“Thinkingthat’sagoodidea,” she drowsily replies, now nestled against his back with her arm thrown around his middle.

“I won’t fight you on that,” he smiles to himself.

She intertwines her hand over his again only to freeze. “Wait-”

“What?”

Darting up, she shakes his shoulder like she’s trying to wake him up again. “Where’s your wedding ring?” she demands.

She easily envisions the gold band with three interlocked rings he always wears on his left hand. Outside of Andy, who understandably refused to divulge such personal information, only Joe managed to get its meaning directly out of Booker over their years together. Booker confirmed to her that he once drunkenly told Yusuf how the bands symbolize each of his sons. The center one bear the delicately carved letters “E” “l” and “L” within its circle. The initials of his wife, Eugénie le Livre.

It also isn’t his original ring; that one was stolen by his executioner after he was hung for desertion at his first death. He had another one made once he reunited with his original family. After his last son died, he hurled it into the Seine in a drunken rage. It took him nearly another century to have this third one commissioned. It didn’t heal the old losses but it was something to remember them by.

“Please don’t tell me you lost it?!” Nile exclaims as she moves to sit up against the headboard. “We can backtrack!” she throws up her hands, aghast. “Try to find it,” her words are high with concern, “It’s got to be somewhere-”

“Shhh, Nile,” he soothes while rolling over and dropping a hand to her knee, “It’s okay, I still have it.” Sitting up next to her, he carefully pulls the gold chain that holds the locket with Andy’s ashes from under his t-shirt. Hanging next to it is his wedding band.

Nile cautiously reaches out to take it. “Glad you haven’t lost it,” she lets out a relieved sigh, “Or thrown it away.”

“I moved it after Azerbaijan," he tucks it back under his shirt.

"Oh?" Nile says with surprise.

_The only way is forward now…_

“It was time to march onward. Time to stop being so damn scared to actually _feel_ things instead of drowning them for the sake of avoidance,” his eyes lock with hers. “Time to see things…see _people,_ as they are. Time for me to grow the hell up and stop taking for granted the ones dearest to me. Along with the one who always speaks the truth to me. No matter how much I’ve tried to fuck myself up and shove everyone away.”

His turbulent gaze holds hers as he seizes her hand with both of his and urgently presses his mouth to her fingertips. At her sharp inhalation, he whispers, “It's you. Always right there in front of me. No matter what a blind fool I have been, it is _you_ , Nile.”

She's utterly silent, eyes wide, body frozen in place. The only other time he’s seen her in such a state was _just_ before she righfully slapped the utter shit out of him and told him to get fucked in Dakar.

Stomach twisted in ugly knots, Booker rapidly unhands her and darts out of bed. He has no idea how he manages to stumble to his feet. “Christ,” he wipes a shaky hand down his face. “Forgive me,” he utters with a visceral regret that he has no intention of blaming her for. “I…I should never have assumed-”

“I…should...go,” she distantly cuts him off as she leaps from the bed, “Go and…and wash up.”

“I’ll get coffee started,” he slurs, throat tight and refusing to look at her.

“Works for me!” she strangles out before slamming the bathroom door shut behind her. The echo of its lock clicking into place is like a bucket of ice water being dumped over his head.

_Je suis plein de merde._

He’s really gone and fucked it all up to hell and back now _._

Snatching up the remote control from one of the chairs, Booker stabs his finger on the power button to turn on the TV. Cranking up the volume in a vain attempt to drown out the ugly buzzing of his thoughts doesn’t work. He feels like he’s sleepwalking through a nightmare. Struggling to prepare coffee in the moka pot on the gas stove, he forgets to pull his hand from its steel as it heats up. It burns his palm to the 3rd degree before he notices what he’s done. Gritting his teeth against the jolt of pain and yanking it off the pot, he almost wishes it doesn’t start to heal. Anything to put him out of this current misery.

_Fils de pute_

“Booker?”

It doesn't make sense how his name coming out of her bears no anger or disgust. Spinning around on his heel, he catches Nile awkwardly leaning against the corner of the counter. Her hair is twisted out again into a curly afro, the coils springy and free.

“Nile?” he nervously says, “Yes…?”

“Um…”

Not waiting for her response, he tangles a hand through his messy bedhead before pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes. “About what I said before,” he limply drops his arms to his sides. “I should have never put you in that position,” he rushes out, gravelly voice worn. “It’s fucked up and wrong and outta line and…and I should have kept my god-damned mouth shut. You, of all people, don’t deserve any of thi-”

Her lips are on his, soft but insistent in their kiss.

He's been struck by lightning before. So he knows exactly how it feels when one’s brain essentially shorts out. This is nowhere near as deadly. Quite the opposite, in fact. In a similar fashion, he doesn’t’ comprehend that time hasn’t just stopped.

Rapidly blinking, he brings his fingertips to his mouth in stunned revelation at what she’s done. Not until he hears shuffling along the floor does he look up to see her skittishly backing out of the kitchen. Her hands held up in surrender, she wildly looks around the room.

His name echoing on her voice yanks him back to reality. “Booker?” Nile repeats. Except it’s far less assured this time around.

He knows in his gut that she’s going to try to bolt. Because it’s exactly what he would fucking do.

Before he comprehends what he’s doing, he reaches out and tentatively grasps her by the elbow. She gives him no resistance. Nor is there any attempt to incapacitate or even kill him. Cupping her chin, he slowly moves his mouth to hers. It allows her to back out if she wishes to. He wouldn’t blame her whatsoever if she did.

She doesn’t retreat.

It’s a chaste touch of his lips to hers. Her delightful sigh as she leans into him makes it that much more miraculous. It’s all reinforced as her tongue traces his mouth for entrance. He gladly grants her what she seeks.

He deepens the kiss without hesistation. His hand sliding into the springy coil of velvety curls at the nape of her neck with a groan of disbelief, his other arm wraps around her waist to draw her in. She in turn grasps at his t-shirt and relaxes against his bulk. Her moan combined with the feel of her loosening in his arms, so trusting and eager, sends him reeling with a burst of exhilaration.

He makes a silent pledge to protect her for an eternity. Or however long they have together. 

She pulls back first only to touch her forehead to his. “You’ve got almost another decade of your sentence,” her words dance along his cheek.

His hand travels up the small of her back, allowing his fingertips to start kneading at her warm skin. “Time flies, _ma belle.”_

“Don’t I know it now?” she quietly laughs.

He withdraws, gaze raking over her. She doesn’t flinch at his sultry examination. Nor does he as her hand slides downward to slip under his shirt. He doesn’t recognize he’s let out a groan of anticipation at the feel of her palm on the solid expanse of him until he hears her breath hitch in return.

Closing the space between them has him intently dropping a kiss her jaw. Her whimper echoes in the air as she throws her head back. Her eyes fluttering closed, he grazes his teeth along the pulse point of her neck and just below her ear.

“This way lies trouble,” he growls before biting down. Her throaty, pitched cry at his action has him mentally swearing to get so many more of those similar noises out of her as much as possible.

"Since when I have ever given a damn about stirring _that_ up?” Pupils blown with lust, her sly grin is filled with wicked promise.

The sound of his laugh rumbles up from his throat, low and deep. Mouth on hers again as she lightly scratches her fingers up his chest, he swiftly backs her into the living room wall. His arms securely around her prevent her from crashing back into it too hard.

“My flight outta here doesn’t leave until tonight,” he manages to pant out.

“Same,” she somehow says in between their flurry of voracious kisses.

"It’s gonna be nearly a decade ‘til we can see each other again," he repeats her earlier warning.

Even so, his lips continue sliding downward to heatedly trace the line of her throat. He grants her an intoxicating combination of greedy bites soothed over by the lave of his tongue and the sweet press of his mouth. He's also got her ass in his solid grip now. She thrusts her hips into him, feeling his thick hardness through his pajama bottoms.

Nile's brain fizzles and it's like she can't quite form words in the best of ways. She distantly realizes she needs to acknowledge his exile. So she forces herself to lean back to take him in. Dark eyes bright with want, she licks at her lower lip. Booker can do nothing but follow her movement with his fiery gaze.

“I wasn’t willing to walk away whenever I saw you before,” she finally inhales, “Are you?”

“Fuck no, _ma chérie,”_ he retorts, hauling her knee upwards to wrap around his hip. She brings up her other leg and locks her feet around him. It gives him plenty of momentum to carry her back to bed. "Not now," he hungrily kisses her again, "Not _ever."_

His heavy weight lands on top of her as they crash down onto the mattress and jumble of blankets. She doesn't care. Not when his hungry mouth is still ravenously working along her neck. Not at the feel of his muscled torso surging against her breasts. Not as she tugs at his golden hair and he growls into her skin. Not with the way his bulk fits so perfectly in between her thighs and he expertly grinds his hips into her center.

She lets out another pleased whimper as he yanks down the collar of her camisole and captures her breast in his hot, wet mouth. It slides into a groan as he kisses and licks at her. His other hand skimming below the hem of her shorts, he finds her slick and soft. Letting out a husky moan, he closes his eyes in anticipation of burying his head in between those delicious thighs.

Except he inexplicitly finds himself on his back with Nile straddling him.

He loves how she gets the drop on him this time. He was admittedly pretty distracted. But seeing her above him, her kinky, tight curls a fluffy halo around her head? She is his fiercely beautiful goddess who makes him whole.

“This needs to come off, babe,” she jerks at his t-shirt, _“Now,_ please.”

 _“Comme ma dame le commande,”_ he wrenches the offending item off with a speed she’s only witnessed when he’s on missions.

Her fingertips delicately run across the tanned, firm ridges of muscle she saw the first time just yesterday, after his shower. He proves just as enthralling up close. The soft wash of dark hair is in delicious contrast to the hard lines that flutter at her contact with him. She takes a careful mental catalogue each time a gasp or moan escapes him along each sensitive spot.

His hand flies to her wrist when she makes her way down to his pajama bottoms to cup his hard cock. “ _Merde,_ you’re killing me, Nile,” he inhales, eyes half lidded and mouth parted in pleasure.

 _“Good,”_ her grin is filled with wanton intent. “You know how many decades I’ve been fantasizing about this, Booker?”

His words are trapped in his throat at her admission of how she's wanted this just as badly as he has. Reaching up, he gently cups her cheek and finally brings himself to softly say, _"Désolé j'étais un tel connard."_

Leaning down, she captures his earlobe in between her teeth. His moan causes her to move downward to nip and suck a mark to his neck. Lower to his clavicle. A smattering of kisses to his chest. Licking down and nipping along the quivering lines of his abs. Each light bruise fades within seconds on account of his immortal state. But it’s the thought that counts.

“You're lucky I'm in a forgiving mood, sweetie,” she rasps against his hot skin before sitting up above him, "Even if it took us so damn long to get here."

“Don't you worry," he mischievously retorts, "I'll make sure it's worth the entire journey, _mon chou._ ”

His thick finger slips into her, teasing her wetness. Her gasp and how she thrusts her hips towards him for more only makes him apply pressure and slide against her clit. His other hand anchoring her thigh to keep her straddled against him creates even more friction. The ragged groan that spills from her lips as he speeds up is like a siren's call. Her retaliation in how she plants on her hands on his chest and grinds down on his cock in a filthy, rhythmic, figure-eight motion lends itself to his own breathy curse. Like they both know exactly how to wind each other up. Her nails digging into his skin leave temporary little half moons. It only spurns him on to swirl his fingers along her with even more focus.

“These,” she breathlessly snaps the elastic band of his PJs, “Yeah, those gotta go too, by the way.”

“You sure you want to be doing all the work?” he winks up at her after she helps divest him of the last of his clothes. He's begun running his fingertips down her side. Enjoying her increasingly desperate noises along with how her dark skin quivers under his touch, he appreciates his discovery that Nile is quite ticklish.

“Do I look like I’d let you get away with that?” she arches a brow.

He closes his eyes and lets out a hiss of want at how she starts once again rocking her pussy along his arousal with increasing speed. Cracking one eye open, his lopsided grin meets her. "I would hope not,” he insists.

“Exactly,” she smirks before she sits up to pull her camisole over her head and toss it to the floor. She shimmies out of her shorts as well and they join the discarded pile of clothes next to the bed.

Booker is breathless at the sight of her so fully revealed. His hands move to reverently trace her lithe form. He carefully cups her dark tipped breasts, swoops the pads of his fingers over wherever he can touch, massages her thighs. Committing every dip and curve to memory, his gaze never leaves hers.

 _"Vous êtes un ange,”_ his words come out a ragged prayer, “ _Parmi les démons de ce monde."_

She balances a trembling hand on his broad shoulder, her other falling to fan her fingers to his jaw. “Sébastien,” she whispers, cheeks warming and eyes shining with tears that threaten to fall, “You…you don’t have to say-”

“I mean every word of it,” he tenderly insists as he reaches up to delicately wipe at her cheeks with his thumb. With no desire to break the spell between them, he winds his hand to the back of her neck to bring her down into his ravenous kiss.

It's been an age since Booker has found himself in heaven. So he makes it his duty to take her there as well. Multiple times, in fact. And this time, he does not waver from his vow. His only regret is that he loses track of how many times he tells her he adores her.

Years later, he'll remember the fetching curve of her smile when she admits the same of her own words of love.

* * *

They end up spending the rest of the day having sex all over every available surface of the apartment.

When Nile suggests ordering takeout to keep up their energy, Booker promptly does so before tossing his cell on one of the chairs and hauling her up onto the dining room table. He then proceeds to eagerly take her apart with his fingers until she screams in ecstatic release. Eating her out to the same result nets him another reward of loudly hearing her cries bounce off the walls.

“You sure you’re still hungry?” Booker sucks the taste of her off his fingers with an impish grin from his position on his knees. Her own knees are still resting over his shoulders as she struggles to catch her breath on account of coming down from her string of orgasms. “Because I think, _mon oisillon,_ " he shifts back and turns his head to languidly kiss the inside of her ankle, "I’ve had my fill, eh?”

She sits up, blissed-out exhaustion temporarily forgotten as she yanks him to her and captures his mouth with hers. “Shut up and fuck me already, Booker,” she fervently retorts.

“Who am I to deny anything of you?” he hungrily insists into her inner thigh before he licks into a kiss there. 

Fortunately, the old piece of furniture supports both their weights and he enthusiastically fulfills her order.

It keeps the deliveryman waiting. He blinks in befuddlement when Booker finally yanks open the door. The Frenchman is sweaty, his hair a messy disaster. On top of that, he's half naked with only a blanket loosely wrapped around his waist. Meanwhile, the deliveryman can't even get out the final price before Booker snatches the bags of food from him.

 _"Take the money and get the fuck out,"_ Booker barks in rusty-ass Portuguese while stuffing a wad of cash into his hand before slamming the door shut.

"Don't be rude!" the deliveryman hears a woman's voice immediately exclaim, "'Cause _boy,_ I know you have home training. You know better than that."

The deliveryman slowly starts counting the money only to swiftly realize it far exceeds the cost of the food plus a generous tip. Hesitantly knocking again, he's met by the woman's voice coming from behind the door this time. She’s obviously out of breath but apologetic before insisting that he keep the change. Her Portuguese is heavily accented but much smoother.

Suddenly, the door's yanked open and he's once again met by the man who initially took the delivery. While he physically looks as unkempt as before, his expression is sheepish as he rubs the back of his neck with his hand. He fires off a quick apology before handing him even more cash. The door is then softly closed shut, leaving the deliveryman standing confused in the hallway. However, taking in the surplush cash, he nods to himself, spins on his heel and whistles as he makes his way down the stairs. 

Who the hell is he to argue?

* * *

As the afternoon falls, it takes Booker and Nile far longer than usual to pack up their things, shower and dress for their flights out of the city. Mostly on account of the continued sex.

It’s also why Booker instantly recognizes how quiet Nile goes while she folds up the last of her clothes scattered around. Deliberately stuffing them into her duffel bag, she stares at him for a long while. He pretends to not notice it as he packs his own things.

The sound of her zipping her backpack shut has him really looking over at her. She slowly stands up straight and smooths her hands down her khaki cargo pants.

She clears her throat before faintly beginning, "We don't have to complicate things if you don't-"

"What if I think you're absolutely worth it?" he rasps, spinning around to face her. "What if I could care less about any of the supposed complications?"

She worries her lower lip with her teeth for a long moment. _“Booker-”_

He reaches out and heaves her up against him. Her arms instinctively wind around his waist as one of his hands drops to her shoulder. It allows his thumb to rub little soothing circles along her clavicle. She leans into it and closes her eyes for a moment as she lets out a few deep breaths.

“Haven’t felt this way about anyone since the Second Republic.”

Her eyes snap open and he can see her mentally calculating his timeline. She manages to stammer out, “Since your family? E-Eugénie and...your boys?”

His kiss is slow and sweet, pouring all he feels into it, into her. “Yes,” he raggedly replies, "Since then."

“I can’t...I _can’t_ replace them,” Nile sharply inhales.

“Don’t want you to.” Brushing his nose to hers, he doggedly continues, “Would never burden you with that. Doesn’t mean I can’t love you with everything else I have to give. Of course, only if you wish it of me, _d’accord?_ ”

She stares up at him, expression inscrutable.

He’s terrified. So much so that he starts to retreat.

She doesn’t let him. Not this time.

Taking his face in her hands, she kisses him. It’s possessive and firm, with no room for negotiation. She only pulls away to resolutely proclaim, “I would like to have that space in your heart, Sébastien.”

“You have had my heart since I first saw you in my dreams, Nile,” he kisses his mouth to the corner of her lips, _”Always.”_

* * *

It turns out they're both flying out from the same, nearly abandoned airstrip on the outskirts of town. So it makes sense to share a taxi to their destination.

It also allows them to sit flush up against each other in the backseat. Booker's arm tossed around her shoulders, his hand rests on her knee. Nile's hand slides under his grey t-shirt while her other balls into the worn black leather of his bomber jacket. He chases her mouth with each kiss she grants him. Her laughter filling the air, he smiles against her soft, brown skin for what seems the entirety of the drive.

The taxi driver studiously ignores them. They both make sure to tip him well for his troubles.

Booker's plane is scheduled to take off first and just as the sun dips below the horizon. The crew finishes refueling it and waves him over. Nile stands waiting on the other side of the runway, closely watching as a couple mechanics finish their repairs on the underbelly of the plane she's about to board.

Refusing to now second-guess himself when it comes to her, Booker crosses the tarmac in a few long strides. His hand flies to her arm and he spins her around to face him. She initially startles. But at seeing him, she eases. "Here to give me a proper goodbye?" she flashes him a smile.

It causes his stomach to flutter in the best of ways. Before he decides to coward it out and slink away, his mouth desperately captures hers. How she immediately melts into him reinforces his brash decision to do this.

Her moan against him earns her his throaty growl as she parts her lips. As his other hand winds into her curls, she wraps her arms around his neck to pull him down to her height. He plunders her mouth like a man starved and stumbling out of the desert into her oasis. He is her willing supplicant, in this lifetime and however many more fate sees fit to grant them.

Their breaths are ragged against each other as they withdraw. Booker pulls her hand into his and presses it to his chest. " _Tu as mon coeur,_ Nile, _"_ he vows, _"Et je t'aime._ "

She seems to drink in his words with each new taste of his lips. "No matter how long it takes you to come back to me, I love you, Booker," she swears into his mouth. Reluctantly coming up for air, her trembling fingertips trace his cheek while her dark gaze searches his face. "You are mine as I am yours."

Her promise grants salvation to what little of his soul remains. His oath warm against her skin, he promises, "See you soon, _mon amour_ _."_

He doesn't look back as he climbs the rickety metals stairs of the plane. Mostly because he doesn't trust himself to not haul ass back out to the tarmac and sweep her into his arms in order to take her with him wherever she wishes to go.

It’ll be the longest seven fucking years of his exile yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Notes and Translations:**
> 
> SERE is a real thing that the U.S. military teaches its soldiers in case they are downed behind enemy lines. This is one of the U.S. Marine training patches, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Survival,_Evasion,_Resistance_and_Escape#/media/File:West_Coast_U.S._Navy_SERE_insignia.png I assume Nile would be very familiar with it, especially since she was tracking down insurgent terrorists in enemy territory when she was a Marine.
> 
>  _“bonita”_ – “Pretty (woman)” in Portuguese.
> 
>  _"fils de pute"_ \- "son of a whore" or “son of a bitch” in French.
> 
>  _"Va te faire foutre"_ \- Basically "Go fuck yourself" in French.
> 
>  _"Claro, amigo"_ \- "Sure, friend" in Portuguese.
> 
>  _"Je ferai de tes derniers jours une angoisse. Je le jure sur mon coeur."_ \- "I will make the last of your days an agony. I swear it on my heart" in French.
> 
>  _"Você pode atirar nele"_ \- "You can shoot him" in Portuguese.
> 
>  _"d'accord"_ \- "Okay" in French.
> 
>  _"Tu ferais mieux"_ – Basically, "You had better" in French in this context.
> 
>  _“chouchou”_ – Basically like “pet” or “darling” or “my favorite” in French.
> 
>  _“Je suis content de te revoir”_ \- "I’m glad to see you again" in French.
> 
>  _"Oui bien sûr”_ \- "Yes of course" in French.
> 
>  _cục vàng_ \- Basically “gold” in Vietnamese. In this context, it is a term of affection that basically means “my piece of gold.” 
> 
> _”Je sais je sais. La prochaine fois, je te promets”_ \- “I know, I know. Next time, I promise you” in French. 
> 
> “Where’s your wedding ring?” – It’s hard to see, but Booker does a wear a three-band ring on his left ring finger, which is where people normally wear a wedding band. It’s very obvious at the end of the movie, when he’s drinking alone on the balcony while the rest of the team determines his punishment. While there are actually three bands, I can’t make out the symbol on the middle band of the ring. So I just made a head cannon that it’s his wife’s initials. Admittedly, I’ve also made up his wife’s name.
> 
>  _“Je suis plein de merde”_ – “I am full of shit” in French.
> 
>  _"Désolé j'étais un tel connard"_ \- "(I am) Sorry that I was such an asshole/dickhead" in French.
> 
>  _“Comme ma dame le commande”_ – “As my lady commands” in French.
> 
>  _“mon chou”_ – Basically, “sweetie,” “honey,” or “baby” in French.
> 
>  _"Vous êtes un ange...parmi les démons de ce monde."_ – “You are an angel...among the demons of this world” in French. 
> 
> _"mon oisillon"_ \- "my little bird" in French, a term of endearment.
> 
> "Since the Second Republic…" - The French Second Republic was from 1848-1851, led by Louis-Napoléon Bonaparte, who was Napoleon Bonaparte's nephew. 
> 
> _"Tu as mon coeur...et je t'aime"_ \- "You have my heart...and I love you" in French.
> 
> More KiKi hair amazingness and a fantastic twist out, https://i.pinimg.com/originals/28/80/6b/28806b01849ad51db326c6a450df7580.jpg Have some bonus Matthias too, just because, https://www.thefashionisto.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/06/Matthias-Schoenaerts-2016-Photo-Shoot-Esquire-Big-Black-Book-004.jpg
> 
> The Song Inspiration for this chapter is _Trust In Your Love_ by Bliss, https://youtu.be/iIzv1WcyegA
> 
> _Woke this morning feeling strange  
>  Dreamt that you were going away  
> Maybe we are travelling at different times  
> A lonely spirit that sometimes collide_
> 
> _I don't want to hold this fear anymore  
>  I want to leave the past behind  
> I don't want to hold this pain anymore  
> I want to trust what I've begun_
> 
> _Did I sleep well last night  
>  I seemed to read for hours on end  
> A settled mind lets you sleep  
> I tossed and turned but couldn't weep_
> 
> _I don't want to hold this fear anymore  
>  I want to leave the past behind  
> I don't want to hold this pain anymore  
> I want to trust what I've begun_
> 
> _I don't want to hold this fear anymore  
>  I want to leave the past behind  
> I don't want to hold this pain anymore  
> I want to trust in your love_
> 
> Another great song for this is also by Bliss and called _Breathe,_ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xL3PHmOBOBk


	6. London, England

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another early chapter to close this out. Also, thanks to every single one of you for your reviews. This was so much fun to write. Especially because the ship just hit me in the face so hard and just won't let me go, in the best of ways.

**London, England**

She never _technically_ seeks him out during the remainder of his exile. It's just that he's acclimated himself so well to technology. So much so that it's not difficult for him to locate her. Only should she want to be found, of course.

Tracking her down to wherever she happens to be seems to coincidentally occur exactly once a year. And only when she texts him from a new burner phone. One on which she's conveniently forgotten to completely disable the GPS tracking. Somehow, this always mysteriously transpires when she's on a solo assignment. Funny that.

It's also how Nile quickly discovers Booker is naturally _very_ tactile. 

She constantly wakes up to him splayed out across her front, his breath steady against her with his ear pressed to her chest. As though making sure her heart still beats even in his sleep.

He leans into her touch like a contented cat whenever she mindlessly runs her fingers through his hair. Sometimes and despite being in public, he’ll close his eyes and let out a dirty little moan at the way her fingertips massage his scalp. Even when he’s not directly looking at her while they’re ambling around, he’ll coax her hand into his. Running his thumb over her knuckles, he'll intertwine their fingers or press his palm to hers.

Making love to her, he'll relentlessly trace and map random patterns along her skin. Like it’s the first time he’s laid eyes on her and he still can’t believe she’s willing to have him.

Like him, she still grieves for the loss of her blood family. But for her, the sorrow proves so new that she's terrified of drowning in it. He's all too aware of how that can go. The way the birthdays and death days can be the hardest to bear. How randomly seeing a certain object, hearing an old tune, the way a simple smell or touch can trigger a memory that brings the crippling grief. He's intimately familiar with how it all came too close to not only demolishing him but also their new family.

So he'll wrap her in his arms as she weeps. Soothe sturdy, careful hands through her hair and along her trembling back. Rock her back and forth as she grips him to her for solace. Be her unyielding rock upon which she may crash the waves of her anguish.

Being alone for so long without anyone to devote his energy to in all of those intimate little ways? No wonder he wished for death. It hurts Nile's heart at how he’s so obviously touch starved. He's been imploding for centuries, with no steady outlet for his affinity for physical affection. He couldn’t even recognize it until it was too late and he pulled the trigger on his betrayal.

But then he gives her that secretive grin as his eyes meet hers, bright with devotion. One of many signs that he’s healing on his own terms. It makes it all so easy to remember his touch proves her perpetual reassurance. The way it bolsters that she needs him just as much as he does her. How he makes her so vividly feel his love that will span lifetimes.

She is his and he is hers, simple as that. 

**"** You look like you've wanted to ask me something all morning," Booker glances at Nile's reflection in the mirror of the gleaming bathroom of their suite. Standing next to him, she's clad in one of the hotel bathrobes. Its fluffy white strikingly contrasts with the warm, earthy bronze of her skin. She's also holding her toothbrush frozen in midair. "'Cause you're doing that thing again," he adds.

Nile looks over to where he's carelessly running a towel across his wet hair to dry it after their shower. Eying his naked torso and how his boxers dip dangerously low on his hips, she instinctively bites her lower lip for a quick second.

"What thing?" she distractedly replies. 

"That face _thing_ you do," he flutters a hand at her before looking to the side, comically narrowing his eyes and letting his mouth slightly hang open.

She bats his hand away. "I don't do that!"

"So why are you doing it right now, then?" he nods at her reflection with a haughty grin.

She finally starts brushing her teeth, words muffled. "You don't know what you're-"

"No, but seriously," his voice drops as he lightly bumps his shoulder into hers, "You're deep in thought this morning."

"Am I?" Nile says around her toothbrush. 

Booker vigorously rubs at his head for a long moment before arching a brow. "Are you?"

Finishing, Nile rinses up and washes her hands. Her final step of her usual morning routine consists of twisting up and tightening the cobalt blue ends of her goddess locs. Going through them in the mirror, she nods at Booker's observation. 

She catches his eye and distantly asks, "You really aren't playing around when it comes to all of this, are you, honey?"

"What do you mean?"

"This is _The Savoy,"_ Nile hums. "I mean, look at this place."

Booker takes in the double sink in front of them with its gold-plated handles and faucet. The inlaid marble countertop sits on a glossy black wood veneer pedestal stand. Behind them, the glass doors of the shower take up the entire length of the wall. Perpendicular to it is a clawfoot tub large enough to easily fit the both of them. Its spout and fixtures match the gold accents of the sink and the trim of the mirror. Even the geometric black and white floor tiling is marble. 

He nods at her, "What of it?" 

"It's insanely expensive," she waves around. "We have a personal butler provided by the hotel, for Christ's sake."

"You wanted to get in a long weekend before we meet up at the pub with the others. So I get _ma chérie_ what she wants," Booker shrugs. Nile feels her cheeks warming. There’s something to be said for his terms of endearment and how they so easily roll off of his tongue. It gets to her pretty much every time. "Plus, the butler means we don't starve," he adds.

She wrinkles her nose. "Okay. But it's called room service though-"

"Room service isn't 24/7."

Nile's huff of retort echoes in the cavernous bathroom. "Alrighty then, you got me on that one."

Booker finishes drying his hair and tosses the towel to the floor. “Besides,” he tilts his head in appraisal, "It's not my fault we need said butler at all hours of the day and night." 

Nile furrows her brows. "Wait...what?"

"We have to find _some_ way to keep me fed on account of all the energy you're constantly having me burn off,” he drawls. “You know, since you can’t seem to keep those pretty hands of yours off of me."

"How very fucking _dare_ you!" she playfully swats him in the chest. 

When she comes in for her second smack, Booker snatches her hand out of the air and uses her surprise to tug her in for a hungry kiss. She matches his enthusiasm, moaning into him. Bringing up her arms around his neck at the same time he wraps his around her waist, she rocks into him. His ragged groan echoes around them as she sucks at his lower lip to gain entry. Reveling in the taste of her intoxicating mouth soon has him tugging away the sash of her robe.

Booker withdraws only to brush his lips to her cheek. "You can stop me from doing a hell of a lot of asinine things, Nile, no problem," he murmurs while his fingers caress the small of her back. "But I'm afraid you can’t prevent me from spoiling you rotten, _d'accord?"_ Tucking a loc behind her ear, he smirks, "Sorry, but I'm putting my foot down on this one. _"_

Leaning in, she reaches up to smooth his cheek. "Fiiiine," she pouts, "Be like that. See. If. I. Care," she insists between each kiss to him.

She can't hold in a startled squeak as he suddenly ducks only to sweep her up and haul her over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. Wandering out to the bedroom, he promptly tosses her on the bed onto her back.

At her giggle, Booker flashes her a lascivious smile, azure eyes fiery and full of wicked intent as he hauls himself up over her. He settles in between her inviting thighs at the same time he takes one of her hands to intertwine his fingers with hers.

" _Mon Dieu,_ do I love you so," he growls into her neck before biting a kiss along the hollow of her throat.

"Love you _more,"_ she gasps, eyes fluttering closed as she tosses her head back.

He trails a line of searing kisses along her collarbone. _“Pas possible mon amour,_ ” he fervently insists as his free hand cups and teases her side before single-mindedly sliding down to her hip on a path to her center. “But I won’t stop you from trying, _mademoiselle.”_

Twisting her free hand through his hair, Nile arches her back up into him as he yanks open her robe. Nuzzling and nipping his way downward and paying special attention to her breasts earns him her wonderfully needy whimpers. Along with another busy morning of him showing her just how serious he is about putting his foot down on important matters such as these.

* * *

They decide to stagger their arrival at the pub rather than showing up together. 

“So they don’t know all about us, then?” Booker swiftly asks at Nile’s suggestion while they’re getting dressed that afternoon. While they both knew Andy was well aware of them, he’s not sure about the others.

“Yeah…about that,” Nile hums. Booker arches an inquisitive brow as she deliberately continues, “Everyone pretty much knows how we kept running into each other during your exile. You remember Joe’s reaction back in Taiwan.”

“Eh, I deserved it and brought that all on myself,” Booker gloomily retorts before he distantly asks, “Did they find out about the other times outside of that and Baku? Or did you tell them?”

Nile shoots him a strained smile. “A little of Column A, a little of…Column B? It came out in Baku because we were all grieving," she rushes out. "I didn't want to make things more difficult by not giving them a heads up that you were around...no one was angry about that, by the way,” she quickly adds, "Considering the situation."

“But do they know about _us?”_ he waves between them. His implication is clear. Especially as Nile pauses in putting on her hooded leather jacket to quickly kiss his cheek. 

“I don’t know,” she truthfully replies. 

Brooker frowns. “So…you want us to show up separately?” 

She lets out a deep sigh. “I just don’t want to take away from how important it is that you’re finally coming home, that’s all.” She cups his chin to run her fingers along his jaw in reassurance. “Once you feel comfortable with all of that, we’ll tell them how we’re together now. I’ve got nothing to hide on that front…do you?” her voice slightly falls.

Before she can back away, he moves in for a lingering kiss. “Why in the hell would I conceal the best thing that’s happened to me in a century?” he keenly insists against her mouth as he gently cradles her face.

Nile concurs that there’s no reason to argue with any of that. In fact, she’s almost late to the pub on account of her showing him just how much she agrees with his notion.

* * *

They’re all at the pub when Booker arrives roughly an hour after Nile. The enthusiastic welcome of him with hugs and a smattering of kisses to his face leaves Nile cheery where she stands behind the rest of them. Meanwhile, Booker allows it all to wash over him. The fearful apprehension in his gut swiftly disappears. 

While standing at the bar and waiting for their drinks, Joe abruptly looks between Nile and Booker. It’s not the fact that they’re not standing particularly close to each other that’s suspicious. It’s how Booker keeps stealing little thrilled glances at Nile. Along with how she “accidently” keeps brushing up against him.

“Did you _seriously_ think that if you two strolled up in here separately, we’d just _magically forget_ that you have been fucking like bunnies?” he sniffs. Physically looking the same, Joe’s tousled curls are longer, his beard fuller as well. It sets off his cheekbones beautifully. 

Nile throws her head back and lets out a string of muttered curses. They only get louder at Booker’s smug grin as he crosses his arms and declares, “Told you none of ‘em would fall for that nonsense.” 

“Come now, _bello_ ,” Nicky tosses an arm around Joe’s twitching shoulders. “Let them be. They paint such a lovely picture together, _si?”_

 _“Grazie!”_ Nile exclaims, throwing up her hands as she rushes over to envelope Nicky into a hug. She turns around to Joe while waving at Nicky, “See this? This right here is the sort of energy I’m interested in right now.” 

“I thought you Millennials were taught to love everyone as they are? What, with all that participation trophy nonsense?” Joe dramatically slaps his hand to his chest in alleged offense. Only his smirk gives him away. Well, along with how he then hauls Nile to him in a hug that lifts her right off of her feet. 

Her laughter sails across the bar as he drops a kiss to her forehead. “I saw you just a month ago,” she pats his cheek. 

Joe rolls his eyes. “And now I can’t even give my little sister a proper hello?” Glaring over her shoulder at Booker, he snorts, “What have you done to her?”

“Tell me, Booker,” Nicky casually begins. His hair is longer now, curling around his ears. He’s also grown out his beard. Booker’s eyes narrow at the small gold hoops he’s wearing in each ear. “Did Nile ever tell you about the time Quynh had that unfortunate accident with Cantarella?”

“It was most _excruciating_ ,” Quynh drawls from where she stands at Booker’s side. How she takes a long sip of her drink through her straw seems to last an age. “I could do nothing but commend him for such a visceral lesson,” she glowers at the Frenchman. Booker vainly attempts to suppress a shudder. It’s not helped as she intones, “It also granted me another tool to add to my arsenal. Would you not agree, Nicolò?” she arches a brow at the Genoese. 

Nicky bows with a flourish of his hand. “I only aim to edify and instruct by example, _mia cara.”_

“That’s my _habibi,_ ” Joe dreamily says, reaching out to rub the back of Nicky’s neck before he kisses his cheek.

“Oh. My. Fucking. _God_ , “ Nile snaps her head away from where Booker pales behind her. “We are not doing this shovel talk!” she hisses at the other three of them. “Not today, Satan!” she smacks Nicky and Joe’s hands as they give her looks of supposed innocence. _“Not today!”_ she waves a finger at Quynh as she marches to Booker’s other side. 

Booker mutters, “You don’t have to-”

“Yes,” she slides her hand into his, “Yeah, I _do.”_

_“D’accord,”_ he slowly replies. 

“Y’all wanna keep this up?” she whirls on the rest of them. “Next time it’s my turn for dinner? _All_ of you will be getting a Cantarella side dish."

Booker shrugs in agreement, airily adding, "The ingredients are surprisingly easy to find nowadays, _ma belle_."

"So yes, we,” she furiously gestures between herself and Booker, “Have zero qualms about watching the lot of you all blistered up and twitching on the floor. Last I checked, vomiting blood and slowly asphyxiating while shitting out your own viscera sucks ass. P.S.: have fun cleaning it all up when you come back from the dead.”

Booker rapidly blinks a few times before he abruptly leans over to capture her mouth in a feverish kiss. “Have I said how much I fucking love you today?” he huskily asks, cheeks flushed. 

“I think so?” she jokes, her smile lighting up his world. “But I'm always down for reminders,” she kisses him.

“Yes!” Joe fist pumps, “I _told_ you they were crazy about each other, just look at them!” he frantically gestures at where Nile and Booker continue making out. “Cough it up, _min fadlik w shukraan,”_ he wiggles his fingers at Nicky and Quynh. 

The other two mutter various retorts and threats in their native languages as they pull out their wallets and smack a wad of bills into his hand. While Nicky wipes his hands down his face in frustration, Quynh actually winks at Booker. He doesn’t find it nearly as disconcerting as he thought it would. Not especially as she follows it up with an actual grin.

She cautiously takes his hand in both of hers. “The others speak highly of you, Booker,” she nods in approval, “As did my Andromache. My faith in her means that I rely on you to live up to your reputation now that you return to us.” 

Booker adamantly nods faster than he thinks is humanly possible. “I will try my best.”

She pats his hand before she withdraws with a uncanny little smile. “I _know_ you will, Sébastien.”

Nicky throws open his arms and clasps Booker to him. The Genoese closes his eyes and lets out a deep breath of relief as Booker relaxes against him and returns his hug. Pulling away, he clasps Booker’s face and nods with a serene grin. “You look good, _mio passerotto._ Well rested and most importantly, healthy. _”_

Booker beams and clasps his shoulders . “You’ve always had a way with compliments, Nicolò.” 

“Ah, _grazie_ ,” Nicky blushes, grin blooming into a smile. “Yet that still does not mean I may begin to fathom why our sweet Nile is with you, _si?”_

Booker punches him in the shoulder, Nicky exaggerating his supposed hurt. “You’re a god-damned asshole, Nicky," he grins, "Anyone ever tell you that?”

“I do!” Nile energetically raises her hand, “All the time, really.”

Joe quickly pockets his newly earned funds before wandering over to Booker. As he pulls away from Nicky, Joe takes Booker’s face in his hands and presses a heartfelt kiss to each of his cheeks. 

“Welcome home, Sébastien. Lovely to have you back with us," his smile is awash with joy. "Now come, _habi_ ,” he claps Nile and Booker on their backs, “Let us drink already, _nem?”_

* * *

"You knew about our uh, _rendezvous_ over the years?"

Booker and Joe are hanging out on the patio. Everyone else is inside and within view through the heavy panes of the glass window. It’s the pub’s quiz night, Nile and Nicky eagerly participating while Quynh sits squeezed in between them enjoying her cocktails.

Joe shoots Booker a chagrined look, though he can't hold in a warm laugh. “Of course I did! Though I admit that besides you two sneaking around London earlier this weekend, I had no idea about the yearly reunions after Brazil. Not until I just tricked Nile into admitting it at the bar.”

Booker’s eyes crinkle with mirth and he swats at Joe, who gracefully skirts out of the way. “You little fucking _wretch,”_ he rumbles out a chuckle before taking a sip of his whiskey.

Joe shrugs. “Nile's grown ever more wonderfully clever in the last few years, I must say."

"How'd you know about this weekend?" Booker asks with genuine curiosity.

Joe's smile widens. "I can't take credit for that one. Quynh sussed it out due to how bouncy Nile was when we all took a break from each other a month before our reunion with you. I mean, London? Nile has never held any sort of affection for this city."

A primal sort of pride wells up in Booker at that revelation. That he has the ability to have such an effect on her has his stomach fluttering with elation.

"But as for the times before? ” Joe starts counting off on his fingers, “There was Taiwan, obviously." Booker suppresses a flinch, remembering Yusuf's completely justified exasperation with him once he realized he was there with Nile. "That time you _really_ fucked up with her in Senegal," Joe continues. "Azerbaijan was a given; that’s when I told her that I knew about your recurring _tête-à-têtes_. So at that point, she knew that I knew about you…ha! That rhymes!” 

Booker can’t deny his grin at Joe's snorted chortle at his own joke. It's always had its charms, as it’s his usual sign that’s he’s halfway between tipsy and drunk. How Joe downs the remainder of his beer and starts rhythmically clinking his glass against the railing of the pub’s patio is a dead giveaway too. The broad smile he casts in Booker’s direction makes it even more obvious. 

“When she came back from Brazil, she was practically glowing,” the words tumble from Joe. “Even when she executes a mission without a hitch, she is never that blissful.”

Booker’s heart feels like it’s swelled a thousand times bigger. “Really now?” he smoothly replies as he swirls around the whiskey in his glass. Looking out over the Thames, he takes in one of the tourist hydroplane boats zipping down its waves. Some things about London never change. 

Joe shrugs. “Alright, I admit it took me a few decades to figure out the first time was in Italy. Only Andy knew about that one initially, may her soul be at joyous peace,” he raises his glass. Booker clinks his glass against it in toast. They both find their hands wandering to their shirts where they both wear her ashes under them as solemn silence falls for a bit.

She will always be their beloved.

After a while, Joe over spins as he turns around to lean his back up against the railing. It’s the only thing preventing him from wobbling on his feet. “Glad to hear you still dig that painting of me and Nicky as Clorinda and Tancredi, by the way," he suggestively waggles his brows. It causes Booker to nearly spit up his whiskey at how fast it makes him laugh. "It’s a rather exact likeness," Joe proudly adds.

"Whatever did we do to truly see ourselves before the invention of photography?" Booker philosophizes, "Like we needed more ego in the world."

Joe taps his glass to Booker's again. "Oh, I squarely place the blame for that on selfies. Along with these infernal cellphones that track every fucking thing. And people _opt in_ to it!"

Booker smiles, thoughts flying to how he constantly teases Nile about her addiction to social media. She of course has numerous accounts under a multitude of aliases. That still doesn’t mean Copley the Fourth doesn't have to constantly spend her time scrubbing them in paranoia. Everyone suspects Nile enjoys trolling the poor woman.

“In the meantime," Joe brings him back to the present, "We recently liberated that portrait of us from the Uffizi. Mostly for old time’s sake." At Booker’s swift look of rebuke, Joe holds up a hand and immediately promises, "Don’t worry, we’ll return it by the end of the year.” 

Booker always maintained that Spielberg stole the whole _It belongs in a museum!_ line from him. It had to have happened when they ran into each other in the late 1970s at some tacky, decadent Hollywood Hills house party. To no one’s surprise, it rapidly descended into an orgy. 

The asshole of a host actually had a real Raphael painting crookedly mounted on the wall of his dining room. The cheap-ass frame he’d used to “restore” it was an even worse insult. The real tragedy was that it’d been stolen by the Nazis in the opening days of the war. Presumed lost to the ages, as decades passed, there was little hope of its recovery. None of the fuckheads doing lines of coke off of each other’s genitals while sitting in front of it had any clue of the treasure right in front of them. 

Booker’s incensed rant to the at the time unknown director must have left its mark.

_Tu ne peux pas voir?! Il appartient à un musée!”_

_“I…I don’t…understand, uh, French? That’s French…right?”_

_“It **belongs** in a **museum!”**_

Being poly-intoxicated never helped anyone’s impulse control. Nicky and Andy had to drag him out of the party while Joe gracefully apologized to anyone who bothered to pay attention to his ruckus. At least it prevented Booker from murdering the homeowner right there on the spot. 

Afterwards, the team contemplated stealing the painting and leaving it on the steps of a museum. Problem was, they couldn’t agree on which one should get the glory of recovering such a prize. Eventually, their anonymous call to the Polish Consulate had it liberated and returned to the descendants of the rightful owner. It now sat in its original gallery within the Czartoryski Museum in Kraków. 

“The poor thing is in dire need of a proper cleaning,” Joe continues on the Clorinda and Tancredi painting. “I can’t have my Nicolò out here looking all dull and grimy for the whole world to see.”

“Well, that’s a flex,” Booker grunts before taking another long sip from his drink.

Joe shakes his head and lets out a surprised chortle. “You even talk like her now.” 

Booker looks back to where Quynh, Nile and Nicky share a bench at one of the tables in the pub. 

Quynh sits squeezed in between the other two. She diligently sips her drink despite looking nearly passed out. Her head is comfortably tucked into Nile’s shoulder. Meanwhile, Nicky excitedly slams his hand on the bell in the center of the table before Nile shouts out the correct answer to the question for the pub's quiz night. Leaning over, he smiles and murmurs something into her ear. It causes her eyes to go wide as she exclaims, “No _way!”_

It’s the same reaction she gives all of them whenever they tell her about some historical situation they were involved in. The current category is Late 18th Century Composers. Likely, Nicky is relaying his Salieri story. Along with how much he despises that _Amadeus_ movie that got everything all wrong. 

Nile leans back and lets out a snicker of laughter. The sound floats through the window and swirls around Booker.

“How long?” 

_"Que voulez-vous dire?”_ Booker distractedly asks, dragging his eyes away from the stunning woman who takes up so much of his thoughts. 

The corner of Joe’s mouth twists upward as he repeats, “How long have you been in love with her?”

Booker lets out a deep, tense sigh before running a hand down his face. Moving to stand straighter, he leans back on one of the support beams on his left to face the other man. Kicking at the scuffed wooden boards that form the patio of the pub, he slowly shrugs. 

“You know what?” Booker quietly replies, “Andy asked me that question when I saw her for the last time.”

Joe sagely nods. “So what did you tell her?”

“Nearly from the start, I think?” Booker finally mutters. “When I…felt her die for the first time, in our shared dream? I just…the first thing that came to me was a need to protect her. From all the ill effects that we deal with due to this gift we collectively share.”

Joe lets out a deep exhale. “I remember how Andy questioned it. It was thousands of years before she found Quynh. Then hundreds of years after that was me and Nicolò’s first death. Over 700 more until yours. So to have another one of us appear only a couple of centuries after you,” he pats Booker on the shoulder, “Yeah, it significantly shortens the timeline. I know you don’t believe in it, but fate certainly has fascinating ways of working.”

 _“Oui.”_ Booker clears his throat, continuing, “She’s also just so _overwhelming_ , in the best of ways. Feels like I forget to breathe sometimes when I see her.” Looking up, he narrows his eyes in warning at Joe's cackle of reply. “I’m not a dirty old man-"

“Never said you were,” Joe retorts. “Though, the lady doth protest too much.” 

“Nicky always says Shakespeare was an asshole,” Booker snorts. 

“He was,” Joe rolls his eyes. “Don’t even get me started on _Othello_. _The Merchant of Venice_ anyone? Caliban in _The Tempest?_ Racist bullshit fuckery is what it is.”

They settle into companionable silence, the sounds of the pub complimenting the settling dusk as the sun dips lower in the sky.

_You will know what it is to lose everyone you’ve ever loved._

“How do you deal with it, Yusuf?” Booker swallows. 

Joe shoots Booker a sideways glance. “With what, exactly?”

“The idea of Nicolò potentially never coming back the next time he dies? Of him, I don’t know, cutting himself while he’s cooking only to find that the wound doesn’t heal within the blink of an eye?” Booker lets out a curse and wipes at his eyes with a shaky hand. “I already lost my wife…my sons…" he trails off. 

The feel of Joe pulling him into a firm embrace settles him somewhat. Especially as he drops his nose into Booker’s shoulder. 

Pulling away, Joe gently cradles Booker’s cheek. It forces Booker to meet his eyes, kind and warm. “ _Habibi,”_ Joe sighs, “You ever think that _you’ll_ be the first one to go?” 

Booker glances away before he finally nods. Joe quietly continues, “Like Andy said all those years back, Nile is new. How about the fact that she’s probably constantly thinking the same about you?” he waves at Nile through the window. “She hasn’t walked away from all of that, now has she?” 

Booker's mind reels back to when they all dreamed of Nile's first death and step into immortality. How Andy questioned it in an effort to protect her. Of Nicky's soothing, assured words that they had to find her so she wouldn't suffer alone. The way Joe passionately insisted they interrupt everything to track her down. 

_It's been over two hundred years...why now?!_

_Everything happens for a reason, boss._

_We have to find her!_

Meanwhile, he vainly tried to push them to abandon her. Lied about the little details he witnessed about her so he could shove her away. All so he could run into death's embrace with his tail between his legs like a selfish fucking coward. Had his plan come to fruition, it would have potentially cursed her to lifetimes of unbearable loneliness. Or worse, Merrick would have stolen her too in order to rip her apart for his vicious amusement and greedy endeavors.

Booker feels Joe’s hand drop over his where it now rests on the railing. “You think you’re the only one who suffers with these doubts and apprehensions? We _all_ suffer them,” Joe emphasizes with a wave between them and everyone else inside. “Communication is tantamount. You know this Sébastien and I speak of nothing new,” Joe’s dark eyes are serious.

“We’ve all seen the worst of each other over the centuries,” Joe murmurs, “And yes, that includes Nile. Don’t fear showing that side of yourself to us as well. For it is better than your old path. We will _always_ be here to catch you, the both of you, if you ever fall.”

Blinking away his tears, Booker gives a barely perceptible nod of agreement. He finishes off his whiskey before he declares, “I can’t…I _won’t_ go destroying myself again, Yusuf.” He nods at where Nile sits through the window. “She deserves the world of me. You all do.”

No one is an island. Nor should they aim to be. Booker's tried in that effort to disastrous results.

Never again.

Taking some time to both collect themselves, Joe and Booker wander back inside the pub. At the table, Nile wraps an arm around Quynh’s back to carefully shift her to Nicky’s other shoulder before she gracefully moves to her feet. She then casually drops a kiss to the other woman's temple before prying the glass from her hand for a refill. Quynh’s fingers linger on Nile’s wrist as she mutters out her drink order. After burrowing her cheek against Nicky, her eyes drunkenly slide shut. 

Joe uses the opportunity to slide into the free space on Nicky’s other side. Ruffling his hair before cupping Nicky’s chin, he captures his husband’s mouth with his own. Nile tries to get Joe’s order but swiftly realizes he’s preoccupied at the moment. Nicky flips her off with practiced ease when she makes a dirty joke about horny uncles. 

Joe takes a different route. Pausing against Nicky, he waggles his brows at Nile and drawls, “Wait until we tell you about our third time in Malta.”

Without bothering to open her eyes, Quynh snorts, “They both speak with the deception of an asp’s tongue.” Her fleeting grin that follows is a comfort. 

Within a few moments, Nile returns to their table with a fresh round of liquor. It’s free drinks for the rest of the night since they destroyed everyone else at the quiz game. Since she can’t carry all of their glasses at the same time, she heads back to the bar for her own drink. 

Booker cuts a path through the crowd to catch her from behind. “Hey you,” he says into her ear on account of the noisiness of the pub.

She automatically tilts her head, granting him access to where he presses his mouth to a spot where her shoulder meets her neck. His arms slide around her waist at the same time her hand moves to meet him. Rewarding her with another kiss, the tingle of his scruffy chin against her grants him her giggle. 

_“Comment va ma louloutte?”_

“Hella glad that we can still get drunk,” she sways against him. Squinting at the shot of tequila sitting on the bar, she thoughtfully adds, “Though I noticed from the start how it takes a lot more to get that way now.” 

“I believe you Millennials call it a ‘healing factor,” he sarcastically retorts. 

“Shut-up, honey” she playfully slurs out, “Don’t act like you don’t know what that means; I’ve seen your streaming accounts with all those superhero movies on your list.” 

“Busted,” he chuckles. “Question is, what are you gonna do about it, sweetheart?” As he spins her around to face him, his other hand snatches up her drink. 

“Hey!” she exclaims. On account of her current state of three sheets to the wind, he’s easily able to hold it out of her reach before he shoots it down. 

He orders her another one while teasing, “I was thirsty. It needed immediate remedying.” 

“You’re lucky I bother to like you,” Nile pokes him in the chest.

Booker haphazardly shrugs. “Fiiiine, I guess I’m lucky you love me.” Her rowdy laughter leaves him smirking. 

Once they get their drinks, they head back to the table with the others. Nile and Booker take the empty bench on one side of the table. Quynh, Joe and Nicky are squeezed together on the other side, up against the wall. 

None of them know when they will die. They have no idea if it will be the result of never waking up after mortal injury. Or if it will be the slow march of age upon the realization that they can no longer heal. Their futures are empty of all clues. Such is the grand joke of the universe, Booker muses. 

He reaches down to where Nile’s hand sits in her lap. Bringing it to his mouth, his lingering kiss to her inner wrist causes her to pleasantly shiver. He can’t help smiling against her before nipping a sweet little bite to her skin. Her lively gaze seems to spill over with warmth as she glances to him. The touch of her free hand to the back of his neck soon has her thumb sweeping lazy circles along his pale skin.

"How you doing, _mon oisillon?"_ he asks against her ear.

He always checks in on her in these little ways. Never overwhelming, simply constant. For Nile grants him a love so worthy of protection that it makes him feel indispensable to her. In a way he didn’t realize he’s needed since he lost his original family to time. He perpetually promises himself to always return her efforts three-fold. It's the least he owes her, owes to himself.

She grins, answering, "I'm good. Actually, pretty awesome at the moment."

" Funny," he smoothly replies, “I'm the same. Particularly when I am thinking of you.”

The flash of her smile is like a burst of sunshine before she pulls him in for a thorough kiss. 

“ _Prego,_ this is why people always complain of us?” Nicky points between them as Booker groans and manhandles Nile to sit sideways in his lap. Her pleased laugh drives his hands to eagerly slide upward into her curly locs as he deepens the kiss. Nile’s needy moan bubbles up loud and clear in reply. Balling her fist into his shirt yanks him closer. Purposely shifting her bottom against his jeans, it’s rewarded with his growl of approval reverberating through his chest under her palm. 

Joe tosses an arm around his husband’s shoulders. “Be _nice_ ,” he warns, even as his lips move to nibble at Nicky’s jaw. At the same time, he pulls Quynh's hand into his on his other side, knowing how it grounds her. She gives him a appreciative squeeze in return

“You know,” Nicky momentarily turns his head to steal a kiss from Joe, “We may always clear the table should you two wish to yet again consummate this beautiful thing between you right now. You are both so _bellissimi,_ ” he waves between them. “Yusuf?” he turns to address him, “I now comprehend that voyeurism concept you speak of, _si?_... _OW-!_ ” he exclaims at how Quynh's reached around behind Joe to smack him on the back of his head. 

“Your insults are amateur and unworthy to be spoken among adults,” she scolds all while winking at Joe. He throws his head back with a roar of laughter as she suddenly tows in Nicky by his ear. It’s hard enough to have him wincing with an indignant snort. “Let the youths have their carnal delights,” she smoothly orders before shoving his head away. “There is no shame in their display to the world.”

Nicky rubs at his ear while muttering, “So long as they wipe it down afterwards. They serve _food_ on this, _prego?”_ he waves at the table.

He’s rewarded with a duo of middle fingers from Booker and Nile. All despite how they’re still engrossed with each other’s mouths. This time, it is Quynh’s churning laugh that's heard the loudest.

If Booker dies with Nile as his last thought and her name said in his final breath, he couldn’t ask for a more worthy way to end his days. 

Funny how it’s taken him a whole fucking century to get here. 

~*~*~*~*~THE END~*~*~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The Savoy” refers to The Savoy Hotel in London. They actually have a legit butler service, https://www.thesavoylondon.com/service/butler-service/
> 
>  _“Pas possible mon amour”_ \- “Not possible my love” in French.
> 
> Cantarella is a real poison that was allegedly used by the Borgia and Medici families most famously. No one knows exactly what it consisted of to this day but its effects are pretty much what I described. 
> 
> _“mia cara”_ – “My dear (feminine)” in Italian.
> 
>  _” min fadlik w shukraan”_ \- “Please and thank you” in Arabic.
> 
>  _“mio passerotto”_ – “little sparrow chick” in Italian. Used especially with and to refer to children. I feel like Nicky would use it affectionately with Booker since Booker is so young compared to him.
> 
>  _“habi”_ – “my loves” in Arabic.
> 
>  _“nem”_ – “Yes” in Arabic.
> 
>  _"Que voulez-vous dire?”_ \- "What do you mean?" in French.
> 
> “a real Raphael painting” is Raphael’s _Portrait of a Young Man_ which is thought to be a self-portrait of the artist, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Portrait_of_a_Young_Man_(Raphael). Unfortunately, the Nazis during World War II really did steal it from a Polish nobleman, Prince Augustyn Józef Czartoryski, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Augustyn_J%C3%B3zef_Czartoryski
> 
> Augustyn tried to save it from being plundered, along with other paintings from his family’s public museum in Kraków, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Czartoryski_Museum. He hid it in a house in Sieniawa, Poland, but it was discovered by the Gestapo. While Augustyn and his family fled to Spain and survived the war, he died in 1946. Portrait of a Young Man is still lost and no one knows if it exists or was destroyed during the war.
> 
> The Czartoryski Museum still exists, surviving through WWII and the Polish communist government that followed. At the end of the Cold War, it was returned to the Czartoryski family and Augustyn’s son, Prince Adam Karol Czartoryski. Prince Adam then sold the its collection to Poland government.
> 
>  _“Comment va ma louloutte?”_ – “How is my little wolf?” in French. While _“louloutte”_ doesn’t have a literal French translation, it’s likely derived from the French word for wolf or _“loup.” “Louloutte"_ is basically a female diminutive of _“loup.”_
> 
>  _“mon oisillon"_ \- "my little bird" in French, a term of endearment.
> 
>  _“Bellissimi”_ \- “Very beautiful (plural)” in Italian
> 
> KiKi slaying because, why not? https://i0.wp.com/greyreignmedia.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/01/Screenshot-2019-01-02-at-6.09.29-PM-e1546743235648.png?fit=908%2C542&ssl=1 Along with Matthias as Booker as the chilled-out, healed up House Husband he deserves to be, https://i.pinimg.com/564x/d4/95/57/d49557c5226e8b3da32d3a682d61dea8.jpg
> 
> As far as Song Inspirations, for Nile, _Ungodly Hour_ by Chloe x Halle is an entire MOOD https://youtu.be/UO-oXdQ-b7I For she makes it _very clear_ that Booker has to seek help, get his shit together and learn to love himself before he has enough love to give her. Abbreviated lyrics below since I’m running out of room:
> 
> _Hit me with your eyes  
>  I ain't ever seen that kinda view  
> You walking over here  
> The way that it went down, that's when I knew  
> We be talking all night  
> But I can tell you need to work on you, you, you  
> Like you, you, you, like you, like you, _
> 
> _You be playing sweet  
>  But baby don't you know that talk is cheap?  
> You can't fool me  
> I wish that you could back it up for me, me, me  
> Like me, me, me, like me_
> 
> _You know that I've, I heard it all before  
>  You're hesitant, wish you could give me more  
> I know you like to play those silly games  
> When you're done, call my name_
> 
> _When you decide you like yourself (holla at me)  
>  When you decide you need someone (call up on me)  
> When you don't have to think about it  
> Love me at the ungodly hour_
> 
> _I don't have the time  
>  To teach you how to love all over again  
> Now let me ask you this  
> Are you giving all that you could give?  
> Once you get it right  
> Baby just know I'll let you in, in, in  
> Come in, in, in, like this_
> 
> _When you decide you like yourself (holla at me)  
>  When you decide you need someone (call up on me)  
> When you don't have to think about it  
> Love me at the ungodly hour_\
> 
> _Love me, love me, love me, love me, love me  
>  Love me, love me, love me, love me, love me  
> Love me, love me, love me, love me, love me  
> Love me, love me, love me, love me, love me_
> 
> _When you decide you like yourself (holla at me, babe)  
>  When you decide you need someone (call up on me, baby boy)  
> When you don't have to think about it  
> Love me at the ungodly hour_
> 
> Otherwise, thanks for reading! Y’all have been awesome throughout this whole process.


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